


Explosions, Experiments, and E-Ranked Luck

by DraketheDragon



Category: Fate/Apocrypha, Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: 23 chapters and Cu's finally here, Angst, Backwards Solitaire is a thing, By ignoring its existance, Creepy Dolls, Demisexual Character, Domestic Fluff, Explosions, Friends to Lovers, Gen, How to win the Holy Grail War, I mean, Lab Shenanigans, Lab safety is important people, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pan Diarmuid, Saran forgetting people's names is going to become a ongoing joke, Slow Burn, Tags May Change, Then again, Trans Mordred, Why Did I Write This?, but still, eventually, fancy party, how did this get so long?, ish, it kinda already is, it's probably just me, its a joke now, liberal breaking of scientific and magical rules, oh well, please do not breathe in mysterious substances, slightly afraid I made Iviana too likable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 80,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21636985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraketheDragon/pseuds/DraketheDragon
Summary: Diarmuid Ua Duibhne’s first real, definite sensation was the cool air on his skin and the chill of the stone floor he was on. Even before fully materializing, he was kneeling before his master. Before his lord. His first breaths were used to speak his first words. “I am Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, Knight of Fianna, also known as Diarmuid of the Love Spot. I ask you, are you my master?”The man in front of him was middle aged, balding, cold eyed, and was in what looked to be an expensive suit. The command seals on his hand were blood red, violently obvious against his pale skin. He straightened, smiling, and said “You may rise, Knight of Fianna. I am Lord Alexander Humphrey, and I am your master.”Previously known as Something Unexpected
Relationships: Diarmuid Ua Duibhne | Lancer/Original Character(s)
Comments: 66
Kudos: 57





	1. The Summons and the Alchemist

There are things that are unforgettable, things that a person remembers no matter how many times they are summoned and killed. Those things are sensations, the pull of mana, the feeling of being not there to there, the process of going from memory to existing. It hurts, but it's a good hurt, yet at the same time it doesn’t hurt, and that’s terrifying because it should. It’s indescribable, unknowable, and utterly unforgettable.

Diarmuid Ua Duibhne’s first real, definite sensation was the cool air on his skin and the chill of the stone floor he was on. Even before fully materializing, he was kneeling before his master. Before his lord. His first breaths were used to speak his first words. “I am Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, Knight of Fianna, also known as Diarmuid of the Love Spot. I ask you, are you my Master?” 

The man in front of him was middle aged, balding, cold eyed, and was in what looked to be an expensive suit. The command seals on his hand were blood red, violently obvious against his pale skin. He straightened, smiling, and said “You may rise, Knight of Fianna. I am Lord Alexander Humphrey, and I am your Master.”

Diarmuid rose, his head slightly tilted. “Forgive me, my lord, but I must ask, is there something unusual about this summons?” He couldn’t place it, but he knew, just knew that something was going on.

Alexander smiled. “You are forgiven. I have summoned you a year before the Holy Grail War officially starts.”

Diarmuid blinked, “Why? Knight classes like me are not usually summoned this early.”

Alexander’s smile widened, just a hair. “I have a mission for you, Diarmuid. A simple one, hopefully.” He picked up a table from the desk beside him and turned it on and flipped it so Diarmuid could see it. It showed a woman’s face, tanned skin, black hair, teal eyes. Not beautiful, not ugly, but slightly too pretty to be considered plain. “This,” Alexander said, “is Saran Secada. She’s an alchemist who specializes in potions, not just potions, but one designed specifically for mages. I’ve also heard rumors that she has designed potions with the Holy Grail War in mind.” His eyes glinted. “Potions designed for Servants.”

There was a pit opening up in Diarmuid’s stomach. What was to be his mission? Capture her, kill her? A sourness in the back of his throat told him that it was not going to be good. Either way, he was a knight, sworn to the man in front of him. He would carry out his orders without complaint.

“Today,” Alexander continued, “I am having a meeting with Ms. Secada. I will persuade her to spend the next year in my mansion, making these potions for me in preparation for next years war. I will need you to keep her safe during that time. Our opponents will no doubt ferret out that I’ve hired her, and may try to eliminate her.”

Diarmuid bowed, keeping the relief off his face. Keeping someone safe was a noble mission. “As you wish, my lord.”

“Delightful. You will need to stay in spirit form for now, the places we must go through are public.”

“Of course, my lord.”

. . .

Saran Secada rushed out of the shop, newly rented suit stuffed unceremoniously into a bag. They skidded to a stop on the sidewalk and glanced around. Taxi or walk, taxi or walk. Walking would take longer, but taking a taxi would mean human interaction. They sent another glance down the street and decided. It was too crowded, a taxi might mean less interaction. Saran leaned forward and waved a hand wildly.

A minute passed.

Two minutes.

Saran started to tap their foot impatiently.

At three minutes a taxi caught the hint pulled up beside the sidewalk. Saran yanked open the door, jumped in, rattled off their address, and pushed money into the taxi man’s hands. The amusement that the taxi showed up on the third minute disappeared in the terror of the chance that the taxi man would try to strike up a conversation. Thankfully, the taxi man said nothing, either picking up on Saran’s impatience, or being declined to talk himself. Saran couldn’t care either way.

Four minutes before Saran started to worry, the taxi pulled up to their flat. They jumped out with their cargo, unlocked the door, and rushed in. Past the receiving room where they conducted business, past the lab, with all it’s pipes and containers, straight into the bedroom. They wasted no time yanking their clothes off, and no time pulling the suit on. With two minutes to spare, they walked into the bathroom.

The suit was slightly too big, and wrinkled, but Saran didn’t care. Their hair was a rat’s nest, and they yanked a brush through it halfheartedly before giving up. They looked at themselves in the mirror. Did they look like a professional? Or did they look like an idiot who nearly blew up their own lab and then spent the whole night cleaning up the mess? Again.

“Nothing for it,” They muttered as they yanked on their gloves. They looked at the mirror again. Turquoise eyes stared back at them, frank, unafraid, and completely uncaring. They sighed and ran a hand through their hair. It caught on a tangle half way through. “Okay, today’s the day. Today you make history. Today you change the world. Today is the day you get to find out if you were right.” They paused, “Oh, today’s also the day that you make a lot of money, that’s probably important.” The eyes in the mirror glared at them. “Yeah, talking to myself again, bad habit.” They adjusted their coat, exited the bathroom, grabbed the briefcase off their bed, and left the bedroom. 

They stopped to salute the lab, it deserved it, putting up with their numerous mistakes, and left. Hopefully they would come back a whole lot richer.

. . .

_ “This is the place.”  _ His lord’s thoughts were clear in his mind, and Diarmuid scoped out the building, looking for any potential enemies. There were none. The place, a coffee shop it looked like, was busy. Saran Secada sat at one of the tables outside, briefcase at her feet, cup on the table, staring at a notebook in front of her, absentmindedly playing with a pencil.

_ “I see no enemies, my lord.” _

_ “Good.”  _ Alexander walked towards the empty seat by Saran and tapped on the table. “This seat open?”

The alchemist didn’t look up, her reply was immediate. “No. Piss off.”

Diarmuid bristled, but Alexander laughed. “That’s no way to treat a client.”

The woman looked up. She was different then her picture, Diarmuid noticed, her eyes were fiercer, brighter, though that may of just been the bags under them. Her hair was longer, snarled and matted. She looked wrong in that suit, like she was playing a role she wasn’t used to.  _ “I do not think she cares much about her pride, my lord.” _

_ “At least not pride in her appearance. Her mind, however, and her work, that is what she’ll take pride in.” _

“My apologies, good sir,” she didn’t sound very apologetic. She set her pencil down, and closed her notebook. She smiled a strained smile. “I wasn’t expecting you for another five minutes.”

“I try my best to be early.” Alexander sat down. “Do you have the goods with you?”

“Of course.” She drained her drink, and pulled the briefcase onto the table. She flicked open the locks and then picked up one of the bundles of bubble wrap. She unwrapped it, and set the vial on the table. The glass was thick and reflected the light. Diarmuid could just make out a substance in it.

Alexander picked it up. “The mana potion, I presume?” Saran nodded, and Alexander asked his next question, “Why is the glass so thick?”

She smiled, and this time it was a true smile, “For protection, mostly, but also because the potion is more potent if it hasn’t been exposed to air before it’s use.”

“Wouldn’t there already be air in the bottle.”

She waved a hand. “That air is already . . . tainted isn’t the best word for it, but it is an accurate description. No,wait, it has absorbed the potion’s energy. The air in that bottle is more like the potion then actual air.” She took back the bottle, wrapped it up, and then leaned forward. Her grin was inching towards a bit maniacal now. “But that’s not what you’re here to see. You’re a Master, correct? You should really think of wearing gloves, your seals are kind of obvious. You want to see the mana boost potion.” Pacing the mana potion bundle back in the briefcase, then she pulled out the other package, unwrapped it, and placed it one the table.

This vial looked the same as the other one, thick, glinting in the light. But the glass was a bit more opaque and scuffed. There was definitely something in there, Diarmuid could sense it.

“Mana boost?” Alexander asked, fingers twitching.

“Oh course. You put the potion on whatever you’re channeling mana into, and it supercharges the mana you’re sending in. Twice the power with the same amount of effort. Be it an iron pipe, or a Servant, all you need to do is apply the potion, and then apply your mana. Even if the mana transfer is subconscious.”

“Amazing. Does it work?”

She blinked. “Huh?”

“Does it work?”   
She started to scowl. “Of course it works, I wouldn’t be selling it otherwise.”

“How do you know?” 

“Because it hasn’t exploded yet, that’s how I know!”

“I - What?” Alexander seemed taken aback, and Diarmuid was, concerned. Concerned was a good word for it.

Saran sighed, and then started to explain in the tone of someone lecturing a child. “I know because it hasn’t exploded yet. The process is very delicate, if you don’t get it right, it explodes. The fact that it is sitting in front of you is proof that it works.” She stared at him, then said, “I see that you are not convinced.” She reached out, plucked the potion from his limp fingers, and started to wrap it. “If you can not be convinced then I’m afraid that we cannot do business.” She shoved the potion in the briefcase, snapped it shut, placed a five dollar bill on the table, stood, and glared at Alexander. “Good day to you, sir.” 

. . .

It stunned him, their outburst did, but honestly, what had he expected? Better question, what had they expected? They knew better than anyone that most people could not understand their techniques. They turned to leave, took two steps, and then Alexander’s next words stopped her. “My apologies.” They turned to see him standing, half bowed. “I see that I have offended you, I mean no disrespect.”

They blinked. Huh. He seemed sincere, but you could never tell with people. Fine. A test then. “Come with me. I’ll show you it works.”

They turned again and started to walk. The coffee shop wasn’t far from their place, it was part of why they chose the apartment after all. They could bear human company for a 24 hour coffee shop. Especially when they were walking the fine line of exhaustion induced giddiness and caffeinated energy. A fine line they had not managed to reach today. 

The door, they’d reached the door. They tapped on it. The landlady was due to stop by sometime today to complain about the explosion, and they did not want to deal with that right now. Not at least until they had a nap. There was no answer, good. They unlocked the door and stepped inside and aside. Alexander has followed them in, and after a second or so, they shut and locked the door again. “Now, Good sir,” they said as they placed the briefcase on the table and opened it up. “Summon your Servant.” They unwrapped the mana boost vial and set it on the table. 

“Excuse me?”

Did he think they were an idiot? “You want to see the mana boost in action. To make sure that it works as it is intended to. The best way to do that would be to summon your Servant.” They were searching the cabinets now, and finally they pulled out a brush that suited them. They tested the tip, the feeling of power and danger assaulted their senses. It would do.

There was a moment’s pause, then, “Lancer, materialize.”

“Of course, my lord.” A decidedly Irish voice.

Saran turned to see the Servant, Lancer, materialize. Tall, pale skin, dark hair, amber eyes, spot under one of them, body tight suit that could not be comfortable. “Now,” they proclaimed, waving the brush. “This will not hurt. The only dangerous part about this potion is the creation. It either works or it doesn’t. No more, no less.” And it would work. “Now, where is the area you supply mana at?”   
Alexander blink, Lancer looked confused, looked at his Master. “Well, his face, I guess.” Alexander said.

“Delightful. This shouldn’t hurt one bit.” They walked over to the table and opened up the potion. The cork made a satisfying pop as it did so. The potion was potent, they could feel the power brush across their skin. They sank the brush in, swirled once and held it up. The Servant glanced nervously at his Master again. They smiled at him. “Cheer up. I said it wouldn’t hurt.” They took another step forward, then placed the tip of the brush against Lancer’s forehead. One line down from hairline to chin, another from temple to temple, across the eyelids, two more from the corner of each eye, down to the chin like tear tracks. It wasn’t a rune, not really, but it was close enough. Besides, it wasn’t the rune that mattered, it was the intent. Strong, powerful, a conduit that strengthened what it received.

They stepped back, grinning like a warrior who had just claimed victory. “Feel different?”

Lancer took a deep breath, blinked in surprise. “Yes I do, I feel,” he hesitated, “Stronger.”

Alexander raised an eyebrow, looked at Saran. “Impressive. How many do you have in stock? How long does the effect last?”

They smirked. Wiped the brush on the edges of the vial, and stoppered it up an sat it on the table. “Not many,” they said, gesturing with the brush, “The process is difficult and dangerous. The effect lasts for twenty four hours. If used wisely, the bottle can be used for a week. After that, the potion loses its potency. The rune isn’t important when using, but the intention is. If you draw the rune but you’re not intent on it working, it will be a dud.”

“How does that work?”

They shrugged. Hell if they knew. “Trade secret.”

Alexander smiled. “I’m amazed. May I offer you something? Better than our original agreement, I’m sure.”

“Huh?” Saran didn’t like his smile. Mages were always thinking of something unpleasant when they smiled like that. “Go ahead.”

“A year tenure at my mansion. For a year you will work for me and supply me with these mana boosts and mana potions. Each will be paid for, your supplies will be paid for. Anything you need will be given to you. After the year, you can leave.” He was still smiling, such a gentle smile.

They didn’t believe him. Something that good came with strings attached. And they doubted he would just let them go when the war started. No way. And if they didn’t agree? Well, there was nothing stopping him from kidnapping them. God, how they hated people. “Your patronage is a kind offer,” they tried their best not to spit out the words, “I will be delighted to accept.”

“Wonderful.” Alexander looked like a kid who’d just gotten into the candy jar. Lancer hadn’t stopped staring at them, shocked at something. “Our planes leaves tonight. Goodbye, Ms. Secada.” He turned to leave, Lancer started to dematerialize.

“One last thing before you go,” Saran said, fingers gripping their brush tightly, “My pronouns are they and them. Remember that.”

“Of course.” He left.

The brush snapped in their grip.


	2. The Explosions Where Not On Purpose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look at this, another chapter. Updates after this will probably be slower.

The crack of the brush shocked them out of their anger. “Frickity fracking fuck!” They yelped, dropping the brush like a live wire. “I liked that brush!” Even without touching it, they knew the energies that it held where gone, they’d have to buy a new one. “Fudge,” they breathed, yanking their fingers through their hair.

The offer, no it was a threat dressed in pretty words, bothered them. But it was bothering them less now. Besides, there were plenty of ways to make this thing work out for them. They bent down and picked up the brush, tested the tip. Still damp, but now inert. With a sigh, they tossed it into the trash.

They couldn’t think, not like this. Not with anger and annoyance whirling in their mind. They tapped their foot. “I have till tonight. Asshat didn’t even give me a time.” They frowned, then snapped their fingers. “First order of business is a nap. You think better after sleep. Then return the suit. Then pack up.” They pulled a piece of paper from their notebook, scribbled their to-do list down, and tacked it to the wall. Then, as an afterthought, they scrawled underneath in capital letters. NO TALKING TO YOURSELF WHEN THERE. YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT BUGS MIGHT BE PLACED IN THE WALLS.

Perfect.

They stumbled to their bedroom, exchanged the suit for a long sleeved shirt and sweatpants, then set their alarm and collapsed in bed. Twenty minutes later they arose, it wasn’t nearly enough sleep, but it would do. Besides, they could sleep on the plane. Maybe.

A minute later the suit was stuffed back into it’s bag and Saran was locking their door. There was a loud cough. “Secada,” said a voice, sharp and shrill. “Where do you think you are going?”

“To return a suit, what does it look like I’m doing?” They said, turning to stare their landlady in the face. Honestly, people! At least they had managed to get a nap before this encounter happened.

The landlady’s arms were crossed, her face narrowed and pinched. “I have received some complaints about a disturbance last night.” Tap, tap, tap, went her fingernails on her arm.

“It was only a little explosio-”

“Explosion! Again!”

“A little one! Besides, I cleaned up the mess, and I always pay for whatever damage I cause!” It wasn’t as if they set out to make things explode, it just happened. A lot. “Besides, miss . . . uh.”

The landlady’s face darkened. “You forgot my name again, didn’t you?”

Saran decided not to answer that. “The point is, you won’t have to deal with me after today. I got a job. I’ll be out of your hair. In fact,” they grinned as the idea hit them, “as a gift for all the trouble I’ve given you over the past few years, I’m giving you my lab equipment. To do whatever you want to do with it. Sell it, smash it, I don’t care. Just don’t take until I leave.” Then they blew past her, rushing down and out into the street. Taxi or walk? The crowds had thinned, walking it was.

Perhaps it was petty, giving away their lab equipment, but Saran didn’t care. Their client had most definitely come with keeping them in mind, so he should have a lab. Hopefully filled with better equipment, though it wasn’t as if the equipment was vital anyway. If he was forced to buy lab equipment, however, that would be a plus. The thought lifted their mood, and they started to whistle as they walked. A few people gave them an odd look, but they didn’t care, not really. Good bye city with all it’s judging people! Hello new lab and unlimited funds!

If it wasn’t the fact that it was a job induced by blackmail, they would have counted it a plus. Even then, the benefits outweighed the negatives. Saran was nothing if not practical. They would find a way to turn this situation to their advantage.

. . .

_“What do you think of them, Diarmuid?”_ His lord’s voice was sharp in his mind.

Diamuid dodged another civilian as he kept his eyes trained on Saran Secada’s back. They were returning to their home after visiting the suit shop. He had not gone in, but he had heard the shop owner’s surprise and Saran’s dark sarcasm. _“I do not know, my lord. They seem very . . . unconventional.”_

_“Caustic is more like it. Luckily they won’t be spending their time terrorizing the staff, but working.”_

_“Of course, my lord.”_ Someone wolf whistled, and Saran whirled till their eyes met the eyes of the caller. He grinned and winked. They scowled, made a rude gesture, and continued walking. _“My lord?”_

_“Speak.”_

_“Forgive me asking, but what time will you send over the vehicle to pick the stuff up?”_

_“In a few hours. Why?”_

_“Perhaps it would be for the best if you send it sooner. They do not seem in the mood to take a delay well. Also, they do not plan to take their equipment.”_

_“A small bit of revenge, but I will allow it to pass. Your logic is sound, Diarmuid, I will send the car over soon.”_

Diarmuid wondered if that bit of blackmail, if that bit of threat, had been necessary. He remembered those eyes meeting his, a grin, a challenge, but nothing of what usually shone in the eyes of a women who gazed on his love spot.

_“You are unsure, Diarmuid. Why?”_

_“Forgive me, my lord. Their immunity to the curse startled me.”_

_“Ahh, understood. Perhaps it is the fact that they identify as non-bianary, instead of female.”_

_“Perhaps, my lord.”_ And perhaps it was something else. If they could create a potion that increased mana, then perhaps they could create a potion that gave them some sort of magic resistance. And perhaps he was overthinking it, and it was as his lord said.

Saran was unlocking their door now, tapping their foot as key clicked into place. They walked inside, and Diarmuid followed swiftly before the door could close shut. They dropped the keys on the table, raced to their bedroom, and pulled out a suitcase. They tossed it onto the bed and opened it up. Then they stood, staring, then they cursed, ran back out of the room, grabbed the note on the wall, and then scanned it. Finally they sighed and stuffed it into their pockets. “Thank you, past me,” they said, “I truly wouldn’t be here without you.” They snickered into the silence, made their way back into the room.

_“I must add, my lord, that they do talk to themselves a lot. Is this normal for people nowadays?”_

_“I’m not sure. I’ve heard that the smartest are all a little weird in the head, but we’ll have to deal.”_ His lord’s mind voice sounded slightly amused, and Diarmuid decided to take it as a good sign.

Saran was surprisingly proficient in their packing. Soon, they were zipping up their suitcase and lugging it out into the receiving room. Diarmuid itched to help. Uncourteous they may be, but the suitcase looked heavy and Saran did not strike Diarmuid as a person who worked out often. 

Saran dropped it, tapped their foot, made a face, then ran back into their bedroom. A few second’s later they ran back out with a leather messenger bag thrown over their shoulder. They rushed into the lab then stopped and ran a hand through their hair. “Fudge . . .” they breathed.

Diarmuid looked in, and well to put it politely the lab was a mess. 

“Well then,” they said, eyes flicking over the chaos, “Dammit, it still looks like something blew up. First thing’s first. Potions. Then supplies.” They looked at their bag, groaned, and started to work.

It was not boring, Diarmuid found, to watch this person tear through the chaos of their own creation. He was certainly surprised at the vast knowledge Saran had of curses. Not only in English, but others in well. Spanish, Latin, and a few others that he couldn’t place, which made him believe they weren’t actually words but just intelligible utterances of frustration.

It took an hour to get everything they needed, and by then their first messenger bag had been joined by two more. Diarmuid ached to help, but he wasn’t sure if they would even accept his offer. 

There was a knock at the door.

Saran made a noise like an exploding teapot and ran over to yank their door open. The landlady’s sharp voice said. “Car for you here, Secada. It’s sent from a mister Lord Alexander Humphrey.” Have a good trip, and never darken my door again.”

Saran smiled, not a real one, but one that was forced and brittle. “You know what? Right back atcha.” They shut the door, but Diarmuid was faster. He slipped past the door, past the landlady, and after a quick check of the street, asked. _“Secada has many bags of luggage. May I help them load them?”_

_“Permission granted, it would be best to start your relationship on the right foot.”_

He materialized, and when Saran showed up lugging their first suitcase, he gave a half bow and asked. “Would you like some help?”

They blinked. “What are you doing here? Wait, never mind, I don’t care. And yes, help would be amazing.” They passed him the suitcase, and he placed it in the trunk. Then he followed them back into their rooms. They passed him two of the messenger bags and shouldered the last.

He heard a clink in his. “The potions?”

“Wow, what powers of observation.” 

“Thank you, I take pride in my observational skills.”

They stopped and blinked. “Huh.” Then they led the way out and shut the door behind them. They did not look back, and Diarmuid couldn’t help but wonder what caused a person to view their living quarters in such an unattached way.

. . .

It was a private jet, and Alexander showed them in with the aplomb of someone expecting great praise. Saran did not give it to him, they had no interest in giving it to him. “Awesome” they said in a bland voice, “Where do I sit?”

“Over here,” He waved them to a seat, and that sat and strapped on the seatbelt. Alexander took a seat facing them, and Lancer sat beside his Master. “There is no need for precautions, this plane is perfectly safe, the pinnacle of aviation technology.”

They doubted that. “In my experience, it is when you don’t take precautions that things go wrong.” They knew that all too well. They had the scars to prove it.

“Understandable.” There was an awkward silence while Alexander searched for something to talk about. Saran pulled out their notebook and started to list reasons to enjoy this job and reasons to hate it. “So, Secada,” Alexander said, “When did you first get into potion making?”

A muscle twitched in their cheek. “A long time ago.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to.” Because it was a challenge. Because nobody had done it before. Because they wanted to do the impossible. Because they wanted to know if it was possible.

“What process do you go through?”

They gritted their teeth. “You wouldn’t understand even if I explained it to you.”

“Why?”

“Because nobody does.” The pencil scratched against the paper.

“Have you ever tried to teach someone?”

_“Your math is wrong.”_

Their head jerked up, their eyes met Alexander’s. “Yes, I have. And she got so frustrated that she attempted to steal my stuff and blew herself up in the process.” The last words where hissed out. Lancer shifted, but Alexander held out a hand. Silence descended in the cabin.

Hate: The boss is a nosy prick.

Enjoy: I won’t have to deal with him very often.

“One last thing before I leave you to your work.”

“Yes?”

“The job is dangerous, and my enemies might try to reach you. Because of this, Lancer will serve as your bodyguard for the duration of the year.” He didn’t say it smugly, but he didn’t have to.

Saran looked at Lancer, Lancer tipped his head in their direction. The pencil stilled in their hand. “Understandable,” they said.

Hate: I will have to interact with one person on a regular basis.

Enjoy: Lancer seems like a semi decent person whom I might be able to talk to without screaming.


	3. Juggling Five Knives While On a Tripwire Above a Bonfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter ahead folks! Have fun! Also, I might change the title of this fic to Explosions, Experiments, and E-Ranked Luck. Thoughts?

Sometime after they had finished their list and had closed their notebook, Saran Secada fell asleep. Their notebook was clasped tightly in their hand, their pencil gripped loosely in the other. They’d managed to curl up in their seat, their nest of dark hair hiding their face from view. It didn’t look like a comfortable position to sleep in, but somehow, they managed.

“This will be difficult, Diarmuid,” said his lord Alexander, “Very difficult.” He was leaning back, fingers laced, staring at the sleeping alchemist, as if they were a puzzle he was trying to piece together.

For some reason, Diarmuid could not help but think that his lord was not going to succeed.

“How will you do it?”

Diarmuid blinked. “I’m sorry, my lord?”

“How will you get them to trust you?”

In truth, getting Saran to trust him was not part of his plans. He was just there to keep them safe, not to become friends. “I do not know, my lord.”

Lord Alexander smiled, and it was a thin, cold smile. “This is a different type of battle then the type you were expecting, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is my lord.”

“Well then, I wish you victory Diarmuid.”

“As you wish, my lord.” He said the words questioningly, because he wasn’t quite sure what his lord was asking of him. However, his lord just continued to smile, and Diarmuid, deeply confused and slightly unsure of what to do now, retreated into spirit form.

. . .

The plane’s shaking woke Saran up from their twisting dreams. For a second it was all fog and half formed ideas that hung tantalizingly out of reach, then nothing but the shaking and the feel of the seat beneath them. They blinked, groaned, stretched. They had a crick in their back, but they were used to those. Their neck hurt too, but then again, when did it not? Alexander watched them with barely concealed amusement. “Good sleep?”

Lancer had disappeared.

Saran looked out the window instead of replying. The plane was descending. “We there yet?”

“Yes,” the voice was still amused. “Welcome to Fuyuki.”

Fuyuki? That was in Japan. They were in Japan. They also didn’t know Japanese. Saran had to admit it was a good play. Arrive a year early, get the lay of the land, and stick the alchemist in a place where they had no contacts and didn’t even speak the language. And Saran wasn’t going to let it bother them either.

“How long did I sleep?”

He raised an eyebrow, “A couple of hours.”

Fast plane. 

Saran turned to stare out the window again. Private plane, private runway, private mansion, separated by trees from what they assumed to be a town. A good base of operation for a war, at least they assumed that. They didn’t know much about warfare, magical or otherwise.

Alexander seemed annoyed at their lack of response, and Saran couldn’t help but wonder why. Saying that the plane was fast would be stating the obvious, and he obviously knew that the plane was fast, so they had no need to mention it. And there was no use in complaining about being in Fuyuki. They were here, there was no way to change that fact. But for some reason their lack of reaction annoyed him. They grinned, just slightly, but that flash of teeth could not be mistaken for anything other than a grin.

Saran watched the ground approach, watched the trees run by as the plane rolled down the runway, and finally undid their buckle and stood up as the plane slowed to a halt. Alexander stood up as well, and Lancer had appeared again. “After you.” Alexander said, half bowing.

Saran stared at him. “Nonsense. I have no idea where we are going. After you.”

Alexander’s mouth twitched, but he started out anyway. Saran followed him, and Lancer fell in behind them. Alexander led them out and then waved a hand at the side of the plane. Someone, a servant by the looks of things, was opening up the plane’s belly, and Saran’s things could be seen plainly. They grinned and started that direction. “There is no need,” Alexander called, “your stuff will be delivered to your rooms.”

“I‘d rather do it myself.” They leaned past the servant, who was currently stepping back, glancing between Saran and Alexander with a confused expression on his face, grabbed two of the leather bags, and slung them across their chest. The glass bottles inside clinked, but there was no danger in them breaking. They used thick glass bottles and bubble wrap for a reason.

A hand reached past them, gripped the handle of their suitcase. “May I?” The voice had a Irish accent.

Well then, if Lancer wanted to make more work for himself, “Sure.” They turned started walking in Alexander’s direction. “Now, where is my laboratory?”

Alexander’s expression wasn’t exactly dark, but it wasn’t happy either. “This way.” He turned, started to stride towards his mansion, his shoulders slightly stiff. They grinned, walked quicker, and Lancer, who not only carried the suitcase but also the last leather bag, started to wonder how long this partnership would last before his Master’s temper broke.

Ten minutes and countless corridors later, Alexander unlocked a door. “And this,” he continued, he’d been speaking the whole time but Saran had been ignoring him until now, “is your laboratory.” The door swung open, Saran stepped inside.

The first room was odd, a TV in the corner, a fridge, stove, microwave, and coffee pot on the counter that ran along one wall and branched out into a bar. There was shelving on the walls and a couch and a rug. There was also a door that opened up to give a glimpse of a fairly large bathroom. Beyond the bar, however, was everything Saran could have hoped for.

Separating the kitchen/living room and the lab beyond was a glass divider, or maybe it was plastic. Either way, beside the bar, there was a door, the only way to tell it was there was the knob and the hinges and the glare. Saran rushed over, threw it open, and grinned at the sight that was no longer obstructed by bar or glare. The walls were lined with the continuation of the counter, which had not only sink, sockets, and other necessary things, but had areas that had been designed to hold the more dangerous tools of the trade. They had half the bar, it being separated by the divider, and stools. One side of the room held floor to ceiling cabinets, all filled with scientific equipment. There was a shelving unit above the counter, with places to store potions and supplies. There was also a large table in the middle of the room. It was curved slightly, so Saran could be surrounded by what they were working on, and only had to turn to move to the next stage of the process. And even better, all of it gave of the energies of never being used before.

If Alexander had shown them a picture of this lab, he wouldn’t have needed blackmail. Saran would have come willingly.

They moved to one of the closets, threw it open. It held an array of safety equipment. A rack of lab coats, leather aprons, a box of disposable gloves, a pair of thick gloves, heavy work boots, safety goggles, and, Saran grinned wider, a gas mask. How delightful.

They closed the door, walked over to rap on the glass. “Bullet proof?”

Alexander, who stood in the opening, smirked. “No, it’s acrylic, over an inch thick.” He deserved to be smug, that was even better than bullet-proof glass. “The walls here are also soundproof, and the air vent system for your lab is separate from the rest of the mansion. You will find a stock of supplies in one of the cabinets, they are the best I can offer.”

How long had he been planning this? It would take at least a month to build the lab like this. Saran decided it didn’t matter.

They walked over and looked into the first cabinet, that one, and the second, and the third, were filled with to the brim with classic magical and scientific resources. And Saran knew at once that most of them would be absolutely useless. They would have to sort through them to find the ones they could actually use. They opened the fourth cabinet. Empty. They took off one of the leather bags and opened it up. Rows of vials, these were plastic, stared up at them. One third of them contained a substance that was mostly clear but looked almost like water. Two thirds of them contained various crystals. They started to pull them out and place them one the shelf. Aventurine for luck. Carnelian for strength. Golden Obsidian for amplification. Ruby for energy. And more. Much more. 

Someone cleared their throat. 

Saran looked up. Alexander was still standing by the bar, Lancer was standing in the kitchen/living room, watching them with those amber eyes. Saran frowned. “You’re still here?”

“I must show you to your quarters.” Alexander seemed amused now, pleased with their reaction to their workspace.

“Quarters?” They asked, obviously confused. “There is no need.” Why would they need quarters? Everything they needed was already here.

He still looked amused, but that was quickly changing to confusion. “Of course you have quarters, you need a place to sleep, after all.”

“I have a place to sleep.” They pointed at the couch.

“Surely not-” he began, but Saran cut him off.

“I said the process was difficult, right? It is also tiring, very tiring. I often pass out the minute I’m finished. In the four years I lived in that apartment I slept in the bed maybe five times? I normally have a mass of pillows and blankets in the corner of the lab to sleep on. Or I just pass out in a chair. Trust me, the couch is actually an upgrade.” They turned away from him, reached out to the next jar.

“And what about a shower?”

“There will be one in the bathroom.” They smirked, eyed the jar in their hand. Clear quartz for memory. “I doubt that someone who made sure that the lab would have a separate air vent system from the rest of the house would forget a decontamination chamber.”

“A decontamination chamber is not the same as a shower.”

In Saran’s experience it could be used as both. They placed the quartz on the shelf, pulled out the next vial. Black Tourmaline for protection. Lepidolite for sleep. Serpentine for healing. When it became obvious that they were not going to answer, Alexander sighed and said. “Dinner is in three hours. Have a servant show you the way.” He turned to leave. “Lancer, your task starts now.” Then there was the sound of the main door opening and then closing.

Saran smirked, picked up the next vial and considered it. Fluorite for protection against magecraft.

. . .

Diarmuid ended up placing the suitcase and leather bag on the couch. After that, he was at a loss of what to do. Saran was obviously invested in their work, vials filled with gemstones had been replaced with vials filled with some type of liquid. All were labeled in a script that was so horrendous it could have counted as its own language. Because of this, he could only catch a few of the labels. Strength. Hidden. Amplification. A few others.

So he decided to ask a question. “Why would a lab need a decontamination chamber?” He knew what both were thanks to the holy grail, but he didn’t quite understand how they fit together.

“Holy shi-” They yelped, spinning and nearly dropping the vial they held. This one was labeled fear. They stared at him wide-eyed for a few seconds, the put the vial on the shelf and ran a hand through their hair. “The decontamination chamber is needed because if I end up spilling something caustic or dangerous on myself I need to wash it off pronto.” They picked up another vial, placed it on the shelf, looked at him with teal eyes. “How much do you know about the modern world? Also, pass me the leather bag.” They were pushing away the first bag, grabbing the second.

“I know what things are and what they are used for, but that is about it.” He grabbed the bag, walked through the opening and into the lab, handed it over. They had opened another cabinet, was unwrapping another potion. “Are all those mana and mana boosts?”

They snorted, “No,” placed the potion on the shelf, grabbed another.

“What do they-”

“Not telling.”

An awkward silence in which Diarmuid watched them as they methodically unwrapped and placed. Finally they sighed. “Have you ever guarded a scientist before?”

“I’ve never met, much less guarded, someone like you before.” Caustic and sarcastic and abrasive, he’d never known anyone so straight forward with their faults. He’d never even really guarded anyone in his previous life either, he wasn’t sure what it entailed beside making sure they were safe.

They groaned, met his eyes with their own. “Okay then. I guess we should get some things straight. I can’t work when someone is watching me unless they are helping me. You are guarding me. It’s not the same thing. Also, I won’t be attending dinner. I’m not hungry, and by the time dinner rolls around I will be too busy to be hungry. Additionally, any plans your master has for me to eat breakfast with him or anything else like that needs to be thrown out the window. My sleep schedule is fucked up, and it won’t match his. Also, I’m here to make potions, not trade pleasantries. Kapeash?”

“Uh, understood.” 

“Awesome.” They said it dryly, their fingers drummed on the counter as they stared at him. “Actually, I might have something you can do.” They brushed past him into the first room, opened up the suitcase and rummaged inside, pulled out two things, walked back into the lab, and lobbed those things at him. “Catch.”

They were really bad at throwing. However, he was a heroic spirit, so he still caught them. He turned them over in his hands. One was what looked to be a deck of cards. The other was what his brain told him to be a tablet. 

“Power buttons on the side, it’s a touch screen, password is impossibility. It’s got a bunch of books downloaded on it. Cards are for games like solitaire or something.”

“I’m guarding you.” He said blandly. “How am I supposed to guard you when I’m reading or playing games?”

“You’re a heroic spirit, right? Can’t you sense other heroic spirits and the like?”

Well he could, but that was beside the point. “You really aren’t scared of the possibility that someone will try to kill you?”

They shrugged, started to unwrap another potion. “Nope.”

“Understood.” He turned and left the lab. In the first room he leaned against the bar, pushed buttons until the tablet turned on, and then typed in the password. After a few minutes, he managed to pull up the library. He clicked on a random book. He had meant to pretend to read it to give Saran the feeling he was not watching them, while still paying attention to his surroundings. 

That’s what he meant to do.

He hadn’t meant to start reading. 

But that’s what he ended up doing instead.

. . .

Ten minutes later after all the potions were put away, Saran stood staring at their lab trying to figure out what to do next. They were tired and kinda hungry, but the need to do something was stronger than either of those feelings. After a five seconds of deliberation, they started to open up drawers. Mortar and pestle, old fashioned but useful, check. They placed it on the middle table. Bunsen burner? Check. Long complicated tubes and the like? Check. Ruler? Check. Permanent marker? Check. They grabbed their notebook, flipped it open to the page filled with the calculations for the mana boost, and started to measure and mark. 

The mana boost was a finicky thing. Certain things had to be in certain places for it to work. A few centimeters off, and Saran wouldn’t have a potion, they would have an explosion. Of course they would have an explosion anyway, but that was beside the point.

Once the equipment had been set up, they pulled down the supplies needed. Vials filled with the thing that was kinda like liquid and were labeled, strength, speed, energy, and amplification. Vials filled with gemstones labeled carnelian, golden obsidian, and ruby. One potion in a brown glass vial. They placed the vials on the table, beside the mortar and pestle.

They were grinning now, a maniacal half grin.

They walked over to the closet, grabbed a lab coat and shrugged it on. After a second, they pulled on the leather apron as well. They eyed the heavy work gloves, then, after making sure Lancer wasn’t looking, slipped their gloves off and the work gloves on. The gloves were thick and still allowed them a range of motion, but the insides were rough and scratched uncomfortably against their scars. With a sigh, they peeled the work gloves off, slipped their normal gloves on, and went digging into their suitcase for their own work gloves. Their work gloves were better suited for their needs, the palms of the gloves were made of thick fabric, the rest was made up of leather, the insides were lined with fine cotton. They grabbed them, walked back into the lab, and stuck their gloves in the cabinet and pulled on their work gloves. They grabbed a pair of safety glasses and slid them on. Perfect. They went back to the table.

A few seconds later they moved back to the cabinet searching for hair ties. Nothing. Oh well, they would have to deal. They made a mental note to make sure to find a pair of scissors to cut their hair. But not right now, now was business time. 

They rubbed their hands together, grinned widely, walked over to the table, and grabbed the vial of carnelian. It was time to get started.

They poured out one stone into their palm and rolled it around in their hand, feeling it, learning it. This stone was not a rounded, smooth, lovely stone, this stone was raw, uncut, and rough. They placed the stone in the motor, grabbed the brown glass vial, opened it, stuck an eyedropper in, sucked up some of the stuff. Immediately the sensation pounded across their temples, it whispered in their mind. Weaken. Make weak. They closed the vial, the sensation stopped. They held the eyedropper above the stone, focused their intent, one drop, two. Weaken. Make weak. They opened the vial again and squirted the rest back in. The trick was getting enough to make the stone easier to crush, but not enough that it affected the potion in the long run. They held up the pestle, set it to the stone, pushed. 

Normally carnelian is a strong stone. It ranked seven on the mohs hardness scale.

The carnelian fractured with Saran’s relatively weak push. Saran grinned, of all the things they had accomplished, the weakening potion was one of their favorites. It made everything easier. However, it still took ten minutes to turn the carnelian into powder.

They grabbed the vial labeled strength, took a different eyedropper. One drop, two, three. Strong, make strong. They did the same with the vial labeled speed. Fast, make fast. They took the pestle, ground the whole mess together till it was a paste. They scrapped that into a vial and hooked it up to the contraption, turned the Bunsen burner on. Locked their fingers together, stretched. Took the mortar, pestle, and eye droppers to the sink to be washed. Stuck the carnelian and the strength and speed vials back in their spots. The first step had gone surprisingly well. Which meant that today was either going to go gloriously, or end in flames.

They walked back over to the table, grabbed the vial with the rubies, poured one into their hand. Ruby was harder to do, it was a nine on the mohs hardness scale, it also fractured in certain ways. They set it into the mortar, dropped four drops of the weakening potion on it while focusing their intent. They steadied the mortar with one hand, held up the pestle with the other, struck down hard. With a crack, the ruby fractured. 

Back in the first room, Lancer jumped, twisted to see Saran raise their hand again and send it down with another loud crack. He relaxed just slightly, turned away from watching them and back to his book.

This one took longer. About twenty minutes to completely destroy the ruby. They set the pestle down, ran a hand through their hair, reached out for the vial labeled energy. Energy was funny, because there was really nothing that gave off energy, so Saran had found shortcuts. Which was why energy and amplification were the hardest and most dangerous to use. So when Saran opened up energy, what they got was not energy, but to make healthy. So when they placed five drops on the ruby powder, they had to focus on every little bit of intent to turn it from ‘to make healthy’ to ‘to energize.’ They squirted the rest back into the vial, started to mix with the pestle, still focusing their intent, eyes narrowed, mouth a grim slash. To energize. To energize. To energize. They scraped the paste into a vial. To energize. To energize. To energize. Stoppered it up, then turned their attention to the Bunsen burner.

The paste in the vial had dried up and started flaking, another vial, a little bit down the contraption was now filled with a shimmering liquid. They turned off the burner, and took out the vial of liquid, stoppered it up, and set it down into a container. They were putting in a new vial when they realized that they didn’t know the room temperature. They turned to watch the vial of liquid took a step away. It shimmered innocently, softly, as if it wouldn’t explode if the room temperature was wrong. 

A few minutes crawled by, Saran was surrounded by two potential bombs. The liquid, and the ruby paste. That one exploded if it wasn’t put on the Bunsen burner in a certain time frame. The vial of liquid shimmered, the ruby past just sat. Saran sighed with relief. They’d gotten lucky, the room temperature was right. 

They finished hooking up both empty vial and vial of ruby paste. They turned the Bunsen burner onto a different setting then before. This one was lower. The ruby paste had to be heated for a long time. 

They started to wash their stuff again, put the ruby and the vial labeled energy up, and moved the golden obsidian and the vial labeled amplification and the potion of weakening to the counter away from anything fragile. Nothing had exploded yet. They would have to be very careful, this was the stage things tended to get dangerous. They rolled a golden obsidian stone into their hand, held it tightly. It was only a five on the mohs hardness scale, but it fractured with sharp edges. They could not bleed on the stone, the batch would be ruined. They could not use too much of the weakening potion, golden obsidian amplified and if they got too much of the potion on the rock the batch would be ruined. As for the amplification, amplification plus amplification was a dangerous thing. For this to work, the lab had to resonate a certain way. 

This was why the first mana boost potion always blew up in the process. It had to explode for the next batch to work. Saran could not stop it from exploding. However, what Saran could do was make sure it exploded in a way that was beneficial later on. Through trial and error, Saran had found that for the process to go easier the second time around the explosion had to happen in the first step before things got too far.   


They pushed the vial of golden obsidian to the side, took a deep breath, opened the weakening potion, wet the very tip of the eyedropper, placed it to stone, removed the eyedropper, held up the pestle, smashed. The stone fractured. It only took five minutes to turn the stone to powder. They grabbed the second eyedropper, opened the amplification vial, touched the eyedropper to the liquid, closed the vial, pushed it away, then touched the eyedropper the the powder. It was the rush, the shift, the push of intent that alerted them. They dropped the eyedropper, threw their arms over their face, and closed their eyes.

Surprisingly, the boom sounded muffled. Surprisingly, the heat from the explosion was missing. Surprisingly, there was no rush of energies, of magic, no pain from the overload. What there was was an arm around their waist and that sound of air whipping past their ear. They opened their eyes and lowered their arms. They were no longer in the lab, the clear door hung slightly ajar. Through the acrylic they could see oddly colored, glittering smoke rising from the mortar.

“Huh?”

They were released, someone took a step back. “You are unhurt?”

Oh. Oh yeah. Lancer was there, wasn’t he? They really needed to start remembering that fact. “I’m fine.” They turned to stare at him, his golden eyes seemed slightly amused, slightly worried. “How did you know that was going to explode?” They paused. “How did you get from here to there to here so quickly?” Then things snapped back into place. The potion. “Fuck! Time limit!” They turned, rushed back into the lab. Their fingers moved quickly, a new stone placed in the blasted surface of the mortar, another touch of weakening, five minutes of pounding the stone to powder, two drops of amplifier, ten minutes of frantic mixing, shoving the paste into a vial. This substance had to keep moving, stationary too long and it would explode, they held it in one hand, shaking it up and down, while checking the ruby paste. Almost done. They moved the shimmering liquid to the next stage, hooked it up. Waited. The liquid from the ruby had to be moved immediately, had to be hooked up to the next stage even faster. The longest, most exhausting, most dangerous part was approaching. 

The mixing of the substances. This part made making the substances look easy. 

If any one asked Saran what making the mana boost potion was like, and they were in a mood to explain, they would have said that it was like juggling five knives while walking a trip wire above a bonfire. You lose your balance, you die. You miss a knife, you could lose a hand. Of course what they never mentioned because then it made the whole situation even crazier was that one of the knives was really a bomb, and unless you grabbed it in a certain area, it would blow up. You also didn’t know which knife was the bomb, so you had to grab all the knives in the safe zone.

For anyone else it would have been impossible.

For Saran Secada, it was almost routine.

. . .

Diarmuid was no longer reading, instead he was watching the alchemist work with a keen eye. However, alchemist was no longer the right word, and scientist or magician didn’t fit either. His eyes fell on the tablet. Mad scientist was more like it, Diarmuid smiled with amusement, then frowned. They could have at least said thank you. 

He focused back on what they were doing. They were still shaking the one vial, but was pulling another out, this one filled with a reddish liquid, and was moving that vial to the second contraption. They stuck a fresh vial in the first, fiddled with the burner, took the ruby paste out and shoved the golden obsidian paste in. They froze, watching it like a hawk, a grin stretching across their face. He half expected then to burst out into maniacal laughter.

_ “My lord,”  _ he thought,  _ “Pardon the intrusion but Saran Secada will not be there for dinner.” _

_ “Why not?”  _ He sounded annoyed.

_ “They are busy with a potion. They also wished me to tell you that they will not be able to attend breakfast. Personally, my lord, I do not think they intend to leave these rooms the whole year.” _

_ “How odd. I will think on what you have said.”  _

Diarmuid continued to watch Saran, who had bust into another flurry of motion. Contrary to their earlier words, they did not seem to notice his observance of their work. They’d been lucky on the first mishap. Diarmuid, contrary to his E-ranked luck stat, had just set the book down to mull over a paragraph at the moment Saran had been preparing for the explosion. He’d been just fast enough to get them out of the way, and wasn’t exactly sure if the door was ever going to close properly again. 

Saran stumbled back away from their contraption, hands braced on the table. They were exhausted, Diarmuid could see it in the lines of their body, in the way they held themselves, but their eyes burned bright with excitement. They looked like they were suppressing laughter. They watched the contraption, nodded, and then turned around and marched away from the table and out of the lab.

“Are you okay?” Diarmuid asked, standing at the ready, just in case something happened.

They met his eyes, grinned. “I’m fine.” They said, and it was odd because the words were both exhausted and energized at the same time. “In fact,” they giggled, “I’m great! Now I just need coffee!” They hurried over to the cabinets, started throwing them open.

“That's good.” They weren’t exactly acting right, no longer hostile or sarcastic, just happily excited. “I wasn’t sure if things would go as planned after the explosion.”

They stumbled back, waving a bag of coffee beans. “Why wouldn’t it? The explosion went perfectly.” 

Diarmuid blinked. “I’m sorry?” They didn’t answer, instead, they messed with the coffee pot. Diarmuid watched them carefully. “You meant for it to explode?”

“Of course.” They chattered excitedly as they bounced on their toes, watching the pot with focused eyes. They didn’t even seem to notice that their attitude had completely changed. “The first potion always explodes. It’s what makes the rest of the potions not explode. The first has to explode to get the other to work. The tricky part is getting it to explode in the right way, in the right place. Which is always in the first step because if it explodes in the later steps then the equipment is useless and you can’t do anything!” The pot beeped, the cup Saran had shoved into it started to fill with dark liquid.

They’d caused the explosion on purpose. No wonder they weren’t scared of people trying to kill them. They obviously had no sense of danger at all.

“Of course,” they continued, “The real dangerous part is now.” The pot clicked, the liquid stopped pouring, they grabbed the cup, drank deeply, ran back into the lab. Diarmuid watched them with shock and something that felt a lot like fear.

_ “My lord,”  _ he thought,  _ “What is the thing that puts out fires?” _

_ “A fire extinguisher. Why?” _

_ “May I request that one be installed in these rooms? Please?” _

_ “Yes. But why?” _

Diarmuid watched Saran set the coffee cup down and go into another flurry of motion.  _ “Just, a safety measure, my lord.” _

. . . 

It was a dance.

It was a battle.

It was both and neither.

It was screaming in defiance at both the laws of physics and the laws of magic.

It was making the impossible possible.

Saran reached out and flicked a vial with a finger, then turned to twist a tube just slightly in a counter-clockwise motion. A thousand little disasters tried to unfold around them, but with slight adjustments and quick movements Saran stopped them all. Except, of course, for the ones that needed to be let build until they could safely be stopped. They were tired, running on nothing but caffeine. They were hungry, but it didn’t matter because the process was going smoothly. Their scars hurt, but they always hurt whenever they got to this point of the process.

They were tired, hungry, and in pain.

But it didn’t matter.

Only the potion mattered.

They adjusted the heat on a burner, twisted a knob just a touch. Drank the last dregs of coffee. A twist, a push, a tap, a knock, everything would be stable for a few minutes at least. They stumbled away. Time for a refill. At the door to the kitchen/living room, someone took their cup and passed them a new one. Lancer. He was helping them? Huh. They grinned, ran back to the delicate process on the table. They took a sip of the coffee. It was good, a little sweeter than they normally made it, but then again, their idea of coffee was to drink it scalding hot and fresh.

Time passed, only measurable in coffee cups. The dance, the battle, their defiance continued. How long had they been at this? Hours? The whole night? It didn’t matter, only the potion mattered. It was their mantra, repeating over and over in their head. Nothing mattered but the potion. Nothing mattered but the potion. It beat in time with their heart. Nothing mattered but the potion. Nothing but the potion. Nothing but the potion.

Time continued to pass, coffee cups continued to be exchanged, and the mantra was exchanged for the feel of the power of the potion as it sank through their clothes and beat into their skin. Strong. Powerful. A conduit that strengthened what it received. The process was winding down, on its last legs, but there were still dangers, it wouldn’t be safe until the vial was stoppered. Another hour of blurred time passed, Saran watched the last few drops of liquid fall into the thick glass bottle. They reached out, stoppered it. Done. Safe. They placed it one the table and tried desperately to stop their laughter. They didn’t succeed. And then it hit them. Their exhaustion, their hunger, their pain. It was like a physical weight on their shoulders. Their knees buckled, and Saran Secada blacked out.


	4. You Could Try Being Polite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!

They woke to a headache. It was a normal enough occurrence for them, so they decided to just snuggle further into the blanket and sleep some more. It took a few seconds before the fact that they were under blankets to sink in. Had they managed to make it to the bedroom before passing out? What would this be, the sixth time they’d slept in the bed? Maybe. Although they could have sworn that they had passed out in the lab, and it didn’t feel like they were laying on a bed, but on a sofa . . .

Saran Secada’s eyes snapped open to take in a view of the back cushion of a couch. But they didn’t have a couch in their lab, and for a second their mind swirled with confusion, then reality hit them. They weren’t in their old lab, instead, they were laying on the couch in the room outside their new lab. In Fuyuki. That solved one question. But hadn’t they passed out in the lab? They remembered making the mana boost potion. Then the exhaustion of two days spent awake with minimal naps and jet lag hitting them, and then blackness. So the question was how had they gotten from point A to point B?

“Are you awake yet?”

Saran yelped in surprise, jumped, twisted, and tumbled off the couch in a tangle of limbs and blankets. Someone grabbed them before they hit the floor. That was right, their employer had given them a bodyguard, Lancer, right? They were pretty sure that was right. 

“I’m sorry, it seems I’ve startled you.” Lancer stepped back as Saran righted theirself. He sounded slightly amused, but perhaps that was just Saran’s imagination. “Are you all right?”

Their head pounded and they felt weak and they felt like they needed twenty more hours of sleep, which meant they felt like normal. “Yeah.” Their stomach grumbled, and they shoved their hair out of their face in exasperation. The rough fabric of their work gloves scraped across their skin and they winced. “Just need some food that’s all.” They picked up the blanket, tossed it back onto the couch, and then stumbled over to cabinets and fridge. “How did I get to the couch?”

“I carried you.” He still sounded slightly amused.

Saran paused in rummaging the cabinets. “Why?” then, “Aha! Cereal!” They grabbed the box and set in on the counter, then rummaged around for a cup.

“I don’t dislike you enough to leave you passed out on the floor.” His voice was dry.

“Huh. Most not be doing my job properly then.” Cup found, they walked back into the lab, and filled it at the sink. They eyed their equipment with an expert eye and wrinkled their nose in disgust. They would have to spend most of the day cleaning it. What a bother. They took a swig of water, walked back into the entrance room, and then opened the box of cereal.

Lancer was eyeing them carefully. “You mean to say you are rude on purpose.”

They snorted. “Of course. How else am I supposed to get people to leave me alone?” They set their cup on the counter, opened the bag in the box, poured some in their hand, and tossed it in their mouth. It was dry and tasteless, but it was food, which was the important part.

Lancer raised an eyebrow, moved so he could lean against the wall and examine them. He had an odd way of moving, too smooth to be human. Saran figured that it had to be because he was a heroic spirit. “You could try saying please.”

Saran made a face a swallowed their mouthful. “Then who ever it was would come back at a later time and try again. Trust me, being rude is way more effective.” At least in their expiance. 

He muttered something under his breath that sounded like “Explains why you didn’t say thank you.” Then, louder, he said, “You’re stuck with me for a year. Do you really think that being rude is the best way to go? It’s going to be awkward.”

They swallowed their next handful, shrugged, took a sip of water. “Maybe for you. Besides, if being rude doesn’t work, then I’ll try being polite.” They stared at the water for a second, then looked at him suspiciously. “Why did you keep making my coffee?”

He smirked, just faintly, but it was there. “Because unlike you, I am polite.”

“Huh.” They set their cup down, rummaged for another handful of cereal. Belatedly, a thought occurred to them. “Are you hungry? I don’t know if heroic spirits eat.”

“We don’t. Not unless the food is good.”

Saran wrinkled their nose. “Lucky dog. I wouldn’t eat if I didn’t have to.” They threw the cereal into their mouth and chewed violently, swallowed. “Well, eat whatever you want. I’m not going to eat most of it.” They set the cereal box down, peaked in the refrigerator, made a face. “Yeah, most of this has to be prepared. You have it.”

“You won’t eat it?” Lancer looked startled.

They shrugged, “Preparing food takes up too much time. You’ll find that I don’t eat a lot, I’m too busy to eat real meals most of the time.”

A pause of silence. “That can’t be healthy.”

They shrugged again, consumed one last handful of cereal, drained their cup of water. “It’s not.”

“How are you still alive?” He sounded horrified.

“Skill.” And luck. And multiple trips to the ER. They left the entrance room and entered the lab, set their cup down on the counter. There had to be cleaning supplies somewhere? Right? They opened a cupboard. Nothing but vials and beakers. Useful, but not what they needed right now. They moved on.

“You’re stuff,” Lancer said, they could feel his eyes on their back, “what are you going to do with it?”

They looked up and met his eyes, turned to gaze at their suitcase. “I’ll deal with it later. This is more important.” The third cupboard revealed cleaning supplies. They grabbed soap, brushes, towls and a pair of rubber gloves, then dumped it all on the counter. Lancer was still watching them. With a sigh, they grabbed their notebook, still laying on the counter from last night, ripped out a page, and scrawled on it DEAL WITH SUITCASE and laid it dramatically onto the notebook. “Happy now? You can turn invisible, right?” They reached out to the faucet and turned the hot water on. They stuck their cup under the stream as they waited for the temperature to change.

“Yes, would you prefer me to?”

For a second they considered it, then they shook their head. “Nah. Nothing’s worse than feeling like somebody’s watching you without knowing where they are.” They removed their cup from the water and took a sip. Slightly lukewarm. 

“Well, then, I will read. Unless you would like me to help?”

They shook their head. “No, this is something I have to do alone.” They turned their back to him, stripped of their work gloves, and then pulled the rubber ones on. They stuck a hand under the faucet and pulled it back immediately, even through the rubber the heat was palpable. They grabbed the mortar and pestle, once clean now blackened and scorched, and got to work.

. . .

For a while, Diarmuid did read. He found the difference in tales told in this time and his fascinating. He’d grown up with tales about heroes like Cu Chulainn, with battles and bloodshed and great feats of daring. The tale he was reading was different, it had battles, but these battles were more the fun kind instead of the bloody kind. It also had mad science, which was a big difference. He looked up and placed the tablet on the counter and watched Saran heave a large, spherical contraption with lots of tubes into the sink. He waited until it was safely put down before he asked “Are all your books mad science themed?”

They jumped, then glared at him, “I thought you were going to read.”

Really, was it that hard to remember that he was there? “I did read, now however, I’m asking questions. So?”

“So what?” They turned back to the contraption and picked up their scrubber.

“Are they all mad science themed.”

“I’m busy, ask me at a different time.” They were scowling now, and Diarmuid rolled his eyes.

“You’re cleaning. That’s not exactly a mentally stimulating task. So?”

They hissed, but answered, “Only a portion of them.”

“Are they all children’s books?”

This time it was their turn to roll their eyes. “The term is young adult, and yes, they are. I find books for adults annoying and dull.”

“Why?”

They didn’t answer.

Okay then, they could be like that. “Why books? Somehow I didn’t think you would be much of a reader.”

They snorted. “Because I don’t like people? People in books are easier to deal with, because if I get annoyed with their shit, I can put the book down and leave. Besides, I don’t read often, I don’t really have the time. But sometimes,” they said the next words as if they contained all the horrors in the world, “I can’t work for various reasons, and that's why I have the books. Also because some of the ideas in those stories are actually viable, so they give me ideas for potions I can make. My turn. Why do you not need to eat?”

“My lord supplies me with mana, which allows me to take physical form and means I don’t need to eat or sleep.”

“Lucky.” They paused, thinking, and Diarmuid couldn't help but consider that Saran thought that he was the lucky one. It was almost funny. “But what if your Master only had enough mana to supply you with a physical form. Would you have to eat and sleep then? Would you even be able to fight?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you want to know?”

“My fatal flaw is curiosity.” They started started moving again, water splashed onto their gloves and the sleeves of their lab coat. Odd, why hadn’t they rolled the sleeves up?

“Well then, I would have to eat and sleep, and though I would be able to fight, my ability would be hampered.” He doubted that would happen here, his lord was supplying him with plenty of mana.

“Huh.” 

They fell silent, and Diarmuid reached out and picked up the packet of cards. He opened it up and went through them, staring at the painted backs and detailed fronts. This was an old set, he could tell by the way the edges felt soft and how the whole deck was curved slightly. He went through them, staring at the artwork. Last night they’d said that there were games he could play with them, but his knowledge of the current world did not give him anything. Perhaps because it wasn’t relevant, Servants were meant to be fighting not playing cards. He looked up and asked “How do you play with these?”

They were setting the contraption on a towel alongside a bunch of other tubes and beakers and vials. They were frowning. “You don’t know how to play solitaire?”

He shook his head, “The game must not be common knowledge.”

“As if.” They shook their head, grabbed their work gloves, turned around, back to him. When they turned around again, their rubber gloves were on the counter and their heavy gloves were back on their hands. It was very odd, the fact that they were careful to keep their hands hidden. It was suspicious, as if there was something on their hands they didn’t want people to see. He remembered their comment on how if they were a master, they would just wear gloves.

_ “My lord, pardon the intrusion, but is it possible that Saran Secada is one of the seven masters?” _

A seconds pause.  _ “There are two uncounted for. What brought this up?” _

_ “I’ve noticed that they are very careful to keep their hands hidden. It just seems suspicious, that’s all.” _

_ “Hmm. It’s possible. Keep a close eye on them and do not hesitate to tell me if things don’t add up.” _

_ “Understood, my lord.” _

“Ok,” Saran was saying, they were leaving the lab now, and they looked as if they were wrestling with their thoughts. “I’m going to teach you how to play solitaire.”

He watched them carefully. “That’s kind of you.”

They made a face. “It’s really not. Besides, I need a break from washing anyway.” They took the cards from him and started to shuffle, surprisingly well for someone wearing thick gloves. “In a deck of card there are four suits. Diamonds, Hearts, Spades, and Clubs. Diamonds and hearts are red, spades and clubs are black.”

“I noticed.”

They scowled and set the cards on the counter. “You’re more sarcastic than you were yesterday. Each suit has these numbers, I’m going to say them in the order you want them, ace, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, jack, queen, king. Aces are ones, jacks are elevens, queens are twelves, kings are thirteens. Now, you set it up like this.” They set one card down face up, then six more face down next to it in a line. Then they started another row, first card face up, the next five face down. They continues until all seven rows ended in a face up cards. “Now, the goal of the game is to clear the deck. Aces can be moved up top.” They picked up the ace of clubs and set it above the rows. “Up here you go up by suit. Ace, two, three, and so on. You need the lower number before you move the next one up. When you move a card down here,” They touched the back of the card the ace revealed, “flip the next one over.” They flipped it over. A red eight. “Down here you go down alternating colors. This black seven can be moved to the red eight, and this red six can be moved to the black seven. If you clear a row, a king can be placed in that empty spot. When you have no moves left, you go through this stack,” They held up the remaining cards, “To see what you can do. You have two options, one draw or three draw. Three draw is harder. The goal is to get as many cards from here,” They gestured to the rows and the deck, “to there,” they gestured to the solitary ace. “Warning, this is a game that is almost impossible to win. Anyway you do it, you’re fucked, and all you can do is get as far as you can.”

“May I watch you play a game? To see how it works?” It didn’t seem overly complicated, but there was something telling him it wouldn’t be that easy to do. He stared at the cards as if they would tell him why he had that feeling.

Saran started at him, then shrugged. “I mean, I guess.” They flipped over the two cards revealed by the seven and six, cursed under their breath, then took three cards from the deck, flipped them over, and cursed again. Five minutes later they looked through their greatly diminished deck, then looked through it again, and then again. They set it down and glared at the rows. Then snorted and shrugged. “That's as far as I can go. The queen I need is locked up, and so is the last two aces. Got it?”

He nodded. “I think I do.” He started to collect the cards. “Thank you for teaching me the game.”

They scowled. “Don’t thank me, you’ll play it a few times and then curse me for teaching you.”

“So this is just part of your plan to get me to hate you then? This is not you being nice?” Diarmuid smirked, just slightly, and listened as the cards rustled against each other as he shuffled.

“I’m not nice.” They walked back into the lab, grabbed the rubber gloves off the counter, turned their back to him.

Diarmuid shrugged, then set the cards out exactly as they had. He stared at them in horror. “Fuck,” he said softly, but with great feeling. He could feel his stomach drop as he realized that this was a game that depended heavily on luck. He was doomed.

Saran laughed, a short bark of a laugh, and then grinned in his direction. “Have fun Lancer.”

. . .

Ahh solitaire, the best and worst game in the world. Saran turned back to washing, but they were smiling, just slightly. They hated solitaire with a passion, but it took up time, and brought back memories. Well, a few. Their uncle’s smile as he dealt the cards, his soft “Well shit.” Their own laugh, high and uncertain, their own voice, protesting against his language. Their mother had always said it was wrong to swear around children. Their uncle’s blank look, his resigned sigh. “You’re mother was right. I’ll try to keep my cussing to a minimum. Now, watch closely Saran, I won’t show you again.”

They closed their eyes, forced the memories away. Opened their eyes and focused on the task at hand. They grabbed another tube, it whispered against their fingers, stronger, make strong, more powerful, boost. Good if they were going to do make more mana boosts, but they couldn’t for a few more days, so they were planning to focus on mana potions instead. It was an easier concoction, less dangerous, but the equipment had to be clean for it to work. They sighed, focused their intent. Clean, pure, cleansed. 

The water was too hot, even through the rubber, it made their scars ache, but it needed to be hot. To burn away the impurities. Clean, pure, cleansed. The tube was set down on the towel, a beaker was picked up. A breathe, their intent focused, clean, pure, cleansed. Bunsen burners and heaters didn’t need to be cleaned this way. Only the things that had held the supplies. 

They took a breath, even with the vents there was still the slightest tang of smoke in the air. The lab itself no longer whispered clean and pure and unused. It now whispered of work and danger and success. Of home. No matter where they were in the world, no matter the time zone or what tragedies were happening around them, Saran’s home was always the lab they were working in. 

A beaker exchanged for something else. Clean, pure, cleansed. Time moved on, untraceable, all that mattered was the equipment. Their hand landed on the counter, they looked over, nothing left, they were done. They groaned and stretched, looked over to see Lancer bent over the cards, face narrowed in concentration. 

Vaguely they wondered if they should have taught him reverse, but then they discarded the idea. For some reason, whenever they played reverse, they got the cards for normal, and whenever they played normal, they got the cards for reverse. Besides, reverse had been Uncle’s thing, it had been something they had done together, other people didn’t factor in.

With a shrug, they walked over to the cabinet, exchanged their work gloves for their normal gloves, then they pulled off both apron and coat and put them into the cabinet. Their goggles were on the main table, where they assumed Lancer had put them after their black out. They looked at their notebook, saw the note, nodded, and walked out of the lab. On their way to where their suitcase was dumped unceremoniously beside the couch, they glanced at Lancer’s cards. They winced. “Ooohhff.”

He looked up. “It’s not completely unsalvageable.” He said the words, but he didn’t seem quite certain.

“Well, I guess it depends on what’s in the deck.”

He looked down at the cards. “I’ve been through the deck. Twice.”

Saran made sharp noise between their teeth and decided not to comment. They grabbed their suitcase and lugged it inside the decontamination chamber slash bathroom. As they’d expected, it had a toilet, cabinets, sink, and mirror. The only difference from a normal bathroom was that the shower wasn’t really a shower, but a decontamination chamber. Or technically a decontamination shower. They unzipped the suitcase, and opened the cabinets under the sink. Yep, plenty of room, they only had, like, three other pairs of clothes. Actually . . . Saran took everything but the clothes out, then stuck the suitcase beside the sink. It fit nicely between door and sink. They put shampoo and body wash under the sink, reached up to test the mirror, and to their delight found out that it did swing open. Inside was a bunch of first aid things, bandages and gauze wrap and stuff like that. They picked up their small container of face cream and stuck it in with the first aid supplies. Of course it wasn’t really face cream, but it was close enough to count. They swung the mirror closed and their reflection gazed back at them.

They still had circles under their eyes. Their hair still looked like a rats nest. But they were grinning, because this place was finally starting to feel something like home.


	5. A Different Kind of Battle

Diarmuid sighed heavily and started to scoop up the cards again, if there was a strategy to this game, he could not find it. It seemed to rely only on pure luck, which meant that like most things luck based, he was screwed. He started to shuffle them, and listened as the cards rustled softly. Why had Saran shown him how to play? If they were really trying to get him to dislike them, then they wouldn’t of taught him the game. Solitaire was an annoying game for sure, but not so annoying that it would drive him to hate them. He looked up and past the barrier into the lab, gazed at the equipment that lay drying on the towel, glinting under the lights.

Why?

“Figured out the trick yet?”

He shifted, turned, Saran was walking out of the bathroom, and they were making their way towards their lab. They had changed into fresh clothes, their lab coat hung from an arm and their snarled and matted hair looked only partially dry. He couldn’t help but notice that they were wearing long sleeves again, and their work gloves were on. 

“What trick?”

“Jumping.” They laid their lab coat on the table and went to inspect their equipment. They ran a finger along the surface of a tube, inspected the finger, and made a face. 

Diarmuid sat up straighter. “Jumping?”

“Mhm.” They walked back through the divider and opened up the fridge. “Do you know what’s going to happen when we run out of food?”

“When you run out of food, you mean?” Diarmuid gave the cards an extra shuffle, laid them out again. “Once a week, my lord will have someone to collect laundry and trash, and take note of what needs to be bought. I will be the one to talk with whomever it is, not only to protect you, but to protect them from your rudeness. What is jumping?”

“Uh huh.” They reached in, scrounged around, pulled out an apple and gave it an appraising eye. “Here we are, lunch.” They shut the fridge, shoved the apple into their mouth, walked back into the lab. They didn’t answer his question, but suddenly, there were more pressing matters.

“That can’t be the only thing you’re eating for lunch.” They ignored him and started to pull on their lab coat . . . over their gloves. He sighed heavily. “Look, I can keep you safe from outside threats, but I can’t protect you if you starve to death.” They made a muffled sound that might have been an agreement or an argument. Well, he’d tried being nice. “You realize that if you continue in making unhealthy choices, I will have to start making them for you.”

Saran coughed, choked, pulled the apple out of their mouth and coughed again. They looked up sharply, teal eyes wide and surprised. “What?”

“My charge,” Diarmuid said calmly, moving a card, “is to make sure you stay alive,” he smiled at them, just a hint of teeth, just a little bit threatening, “by any means possible. If that means I have to shove food down your throat because you’re too busy to eat properly, then I will do it.”

They stared at him in horror for a second, then said, “Huh.” They took a bite out of their apple, chewed, swallowed, then said, “Really?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you accusing me of lying?”

They scowled, eyes glinting, “No. I am merely expressing my surprise and disbelief in as abrupt way as possible.” They turned their back to him, signaling that they were not going to continue the conversation. At least the crunch of the apple signified that they were still eating, instead of stopping in a fit of rage.

Diarmuid took another deep breath, and then moved another card. A year. He could last a year. He would have to.

. . .

If there was one thing that could shake Saran down to their foundations, it was the threat of the way they worked being tampered with. Saran had a simple schedule. They ate when they were hungry and weren’t busy, and they sleep if they had time. The rest of their day was spent in the lab, experimenting, or cleaning, or brewing up another potion. It was what they did, what they lived for, other things didn’t really factor into it. Of course they knew it wasn’t the healthiest way to live, not by a long shot, but it was what made them happy. That was what mattered.

What didn’t matter was what other people thought of this schedule. They had never had someone in their workspace long enough to comment on their habits, or even threaten to change them. Saran wondered if Lancer knew just how terrifying that statement was, that he was charged to keep them alive by any means possible, even by forcing them to eat. Probably not. They took another savage bite of their apple.

Whatever, they’d been taking care of themself for a long time now, and they knew their limits. Besides, they weren’t even overly hungry, they’d had breakfast after all. In fact, lunch was the least important meal of the day. Not only easily skipped, but also easily forgotten.

Saran forced themself out of their contemplation and back into work mode. The potions were what was important here, the potions were always more important. They stuck the apple back in their mouth and considered the cabinets. They had plenty of vials and beakers, but did they have enough of the rest of the necessary equipment to replace what was drying? They went on a quick search, and yes, they had plenty. They started to carry it to the table, their mind whirring as they thought. 

The mana potion was probably the simplest thing they’d ever created. Ever. The process was similar to the mana boost potion process, but the ingredients were different. No carnelian, ruby, or golden obsidian here. No, the idea wasn’t to make a conduit, but to strengthen the supply of mana. What Saran used most of the time was aquamarine, azurite, and fluorite. Aquamarine and azurite strengthened psychic abilities, aka magic, which meant aka mana. Kinda, in a roundabout way, but Saran was very good at getting things to work in roundabout ways. Fluorite was similar to golden obsidian because in the right circumstances it could be used as an amplifier, but that amplification tended to work on other stones, not mana, which tended to make it less dangerous. However, theoretically, if Saran could figure out a way to make the fluorite work like golden obsidian, then the mana boost and mana potion could technically be combined into one process. A process that, though more complicated, would most likely be less volatile. They’d made some progress already, and they would much rather be working on that then be working on something they’d already figured out . . .

Saran shook their head sharply and dumped the equipment on the table. They weren’t being paid to experiment, they were being paid to make mana boosts and mana potions. That was it. And if they started to experiment, then the lovely, and most importantly clean and in one piece, lab would start to look less lovely because of all the soot stains and scorch marks. Well, that wasn’t really a problem, what would be a problem was their . . . benefactors reaction to the damaged lab.

Saran bit into the apple and caught the remainder in their hand. Chewing, they considered the apple. There was about half left, and they weren’t overly hungry anymore, the excitement of the impending process had pushed any traces of hunger away. And yet, Lancer’s warning still hovered in their mind. With an annoyed sigh, they decided that finishing the apple was probably for the best. They swallowed, took another bite, and then went to grab the next part of their supplies. Vials labeled Aquamarine, Azurite, Fluorite, Weakening, and Mana were all carried to the table and placed on last empty spot. 

They finished the apple, staring at the equipment, the steps of the potion flashing through their mind’s eye. They tossed the core into the trash, grabbed their notebook and flipped to the page with the Mana Potion formula, and then started to construct the equipment. They could feel their grin stretch across their face, something wide and eager. Ahh yes, why would they need to sleep or eat when they could do this instead?

. . .

Diarmuid looked up at the first crack. Saran was working, their equipment set up and vials laid out. He looked at the cards again, then looked back at Saran. He thought of yesterday's explosion, then decided to focus on Saran. Strangely enough, the mad scientist was humming, a half-hearted tune that was present one moment and gone the next. It wasn’t any song he knew, but the tune wasn’t overly bad. 

As he watched them work, his thoughts drifted. He was feeling slightly bad for his comment earlier, but as Saran hadn’t seemed to have taken offense, so he figured that he didn’t have to apologize. Still . . . he looked down and moved a card, flipped the next one over. That one could be moved too. He did so, wondering who the cards had belonged to. Where they Saran’s? Somehow the mad scientist didn’t strike him as the type to buy something as unnecessary as cards. Had they been a gift? Perhaps from a family member, or a friend, but that didn’t quite sit right in his mind. Saran and friend didn’t seem like they belonged in the same sentence. They’d probably just bought the pack, and then used them until they were worn down. 

Saran. Their argument still preyed on his mind, though it hadn’t really been an argument, had it? It had been him telling them what would happen if they continued to make the choices they were making. Argument suggested yelling, anger, but he hadn’t been angry, just exasperated. Diarmuid sighed, he wasn’t going to last a year, not at this rate, which meant that the two of them needed to come to a truce of some kind. He’d planned on just guarding them, but just guarding them was not going to work. Which meant he needed to find a middle ground, but what? He was a Irish warrior from myth and legend, they were a modern day mad scientist who only cared about their work. Which meant that a middle ground was hard to find.

Which meant he would have to dig until he found it. It would be a battle of sorts, a way to test, if not his spears, then his mind at least. He smiled at the thought, listening to Saran’s humming and the sound of their work. He would finish his game, then he would continue to read, and perhaps he would find a middle ground somewhere in there.

. . .

Saran pulled back from the table and wiped their brow. Everything was going good, until now at least. Now was the worst part of the potion, waiting. How long they waited tended to vary on the impurities in the gems they used, but the average time tended to be around twenty minutes. Which meant they could address the hunger gnawing at their stomach again. They weren’t going to eat another apple, but cereal was always a good option. They walked back into the main room, were Lancer was leaning against the counter, reading. They decided to snag the cards as they passed him, a few games of solitaire was always an option. “Figure out the trick yet?”

Lancer looked up, amber eyes catching the light. For a second, they didn’t quite look human. “No,” he said, “are you willing to share?”

“Figure it out yourself,” Saran snorted, reaching up into the cabinets to grab cereal. “How’s the book?” The words were out before they could catch them, damn curiosity. It always got the better of them.

“It is quite enjoyable. I think my favorite character is Penny.”

“Uh huh.” Cereal box was opened, cards were shuffled.

“Who is yours?”

“Mine? Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Trust me, it matters.”

Saran froze for a second, cards half dealt. _“Why won’t you trust me?”_ They shook the away the thought and the memory that came with it and continued to deal. “I like Lucyfar.”

“Lucyfar,” he mused, then nodded, “I can see that. Thank you for answering my question.”

Why did they get the feeling he had learned a lot from that little bit of information? They turned to look, but Lancer was already reading again. Whatever, it couldn’t be that important, could it? They shrugged, then grabbed a handful of cereal and chewed, the faces of the cards staring back up at them implacably. The cards had no answers for them, but then again, why had they expected them to? They were just cards. Old cards, but cards nonetheless. They forced their unease from their mind and started to play. And when their twenty minutes were up, and their hunger sated for the time being, Saran went back to what they did understand. The potion, action and reaction, the simple, understandable formula where what people thought didn’t matter in the slightest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points for whomever can guess the book series I'm referring too.


	6. A Calm Before the Storm

Finally, Diarmuid set the tablet aside, mind reeling at the book’s ending. Book’s ending. He grabbed the tablet and looked at the time, mind numb with shock. How long had he spent reading? By the look of it, way too long. He turned around to look at the lab, where Saran still worked, movements smooth and sure. The scene was exactly the same as the last time he’d checked, except there was a bottle on the counter, a vial filled with some kind of potion. They’d finished their first potion and moved on to the next. And Diarmuid was certain that they hadn’t stopped to eat a proper dinner.

He almost said something, but his words earlier rose into his mind. No, he had a better solution.  _ “My lord, pardon my intrusion, but may I ask about the wifi password?”  _ The knowledge gifted to him by the grail extended that far, at least. 

His lords mind-voice sounded groggy, and Diarmuid realized that he must have been asleep.  _ “Should be on the back of the television.” _

_ “Ah, my thanks, my lord. Sleep well.”  _ Diarmuid looked at the back of the television, located the password, and after a few seconds, managed to hook up the tablet to the wifi. Now for the next step. Diarmuid moved over to the kitchen bit of the first room and looked over the stuff. He knew the names of all the things in this little section and after a few moments of thought, decided that he did know how to use the equipment. Now all he had to do was figure out what to make.

He looked back at Saran, whose fingers flew as they worked, and smirked slightly. He had never known anyone who could ignore the smell of a freshly cooked meal when they were hungry.

He opened the web browser on tablet and looked up recipes and . . . he set down the tablet and stared. There were so many, so very many. After a few seconds of shocked surprise, he changed his search from recipes to recipes for beginners. There were still a lot. A lot. But it was a manageable amount. Then an idea struck him and he started to look through the cabinets.

With a smile, Diarmuid got to work.

. . .

Saran was in a different world, one that orbited around the potion, one softer than yesterday's rush of movement and fear and danger and excitement and anticipation. It was still like that, but less, the potion they were working on was winding down to a close, and they could take a few moments to breathe deeply, to let their mind wonder. And it did, down paths that Saran didn’t let their body follow. What would happen if they twisted this tube this way, increased the heat here, and held back this liquid here? Would the properties change? Would it just blow up? What if they? Questions over top of questions over top of questions, nothing but questions. 

The mana boost potion left them time for nothing but movement but the mana potion gave them time to wonder.

But they couldn’t follow where their curiosity lead because they weren’t making this potion to see what would happen. Besides, sleep was dragging at their bones like grasping claws, and they hadn’t had a chance to make theirself a proper cup of coffee to stave off the unwelcome attack. Following those questions would lead to mistakes, and they couldn’t afford the possible consequences of those mistakes right now. 

Saran pushed a vial slightly, turned the heat down on a burner, twisted a tap, adjusted the empty vial so it would catch the drops in the right way. What would happen if they held back the tap for three seconds? Nothing? Something? Saran watched the liquid as it plopped softly into the empty vial, noting its color and the energies that pressed against their skin. It seemed correct. Another successful potion, so far at least. 

Which meant they had been in the lab for at least ten hours now. Which meant they could get maybe three more mana potions done before moving onto a mana boost potion. There were twenty four hours in a day. It took five hours to make a mana potion, anywhere from eight to ten for a mana boost potion, add on about two hours for cleaning up lab this morning and taking a shower. That meant that their estimated time of staying awake for this round would be, hmm, no more than thirty seven hours total. Eh, they had time to throw in one more mana potion to make it a nice forty two hours. That was less than two days, exactly two days if they gave theirself about six hours of sleep. Gah, but that was such a waste of time, they could get in another mana potion in that six hours . . .

Saran turned the tap and stoppered the potion. Their stomach growled and they scowled slightly at the sound. They would have to redo their calculations again, they’d forgotten to count the time they would have to spend eating. What a bother. Perhaps they wouldn’t be able to add the extra potion after all.

They picked up the potion, walked over to the counter and set it down beside the first potion and a plate of food. Saran blinked. What was a plate of food doing there? Belatedly, the smell reached their nose, and it smelled good. It had been a long time since they’d eaten anything that wasn’t packaged. That still didn’t answer why it was there. Wait . . . Lancer . . . had Lancer made it for them? But why? 

Because it was more effective then force feeding them, duh.

“My apologies, but the food has grown slightly cold.” Lancer’s voice was soft, and when they looked at him, they could make out his calculating eyes behind the bullet proof glass.

Saran picked up the plate, moved over to their side of the bar, set the plate down, and hauled theirself onto the bar top. They shifted to place the glass against their back and let their feet dangle in the air. “I didn’t know bodyguards cooked,” they said as they picked up their plate and set it in their lap. It was, if Saran had to guess, some type of Hamburger Helper. They felt odd, an uneasiness in their stomach that didn’t settle well.

When was the last time anyone had cooked for them? It had been a long time, about as long as it had been since they’d had something that wasn’t premade. Longer? They scowled slightly at the food, picked up the fork, and took a bite. 

It tasted better than anything they’d had in a long time. 

“Well, I’m not sure they do either, but it’s better than letting you starve.”

“Huh.”

“Do you plan on sleeping?”

“No. Are you going to let me eat?”

A soft sound that might of been a laugh. “Of course.”

So Saran ate in silence, mind whirling, and finally it landed on when they’d last had food cooked by someone else. Uncle had, the day before he’d been hospitalized. A week before he’d died. Seven years ago. No wonder they felt like they had a lump in their throat. Like they couldn’t breathe, like they were drowning. They were, in some way.

They ate quickly, then slipped off the bar to put the dishes in the sink. Turned on the water, started to wash them. They’d need this sink to wash their equipment later, and needed the methodical motions to push down the well of emotion that tried to force its way up. Lancer’s voice again, soft and amused, “I assume I did well?”

“Assume what you want.” They dried off the plate and fork, then walked through the divider to put the plates up. They got the coffee machine ready, started to heat the water, then walked over to stare at Lancer’s cards. He was going through the deck too quickly, and Saran got the impression that he’d been through the deck a couple of times already. “Five can go up.” The words were out before they could stop them. They weren’t sure they wanted to.

Lancer set the deck down and looked at the cards. “No it can’t.”

Saran picked up everything below the five of hearts and shifted it over to the five of diamonds. Then they put the five of hearts onto the hearts stack, and shifted the five of diamonds and it’s load over to the six of clubs. They flipped over the revealed card, and moved away from Lancer and towards their lab. 

His voice stopped them, incredulous and disbelieving. “How did I not think of that?” 

Saran shrugged. It had taken them a while to figure it out as well. They thought it had, at least. 

“So that’s the trick of jumping then?”

“Yep.”

“Thank you.”

They could feel his eyes on their back and they scowled, pulling their gloves up higher. The odd uneasiness in their gut twisted further. Without a word, they stepped fully into the lab and shut the door behind them.

. . .

Like molasses, the days passed. The two of them fell into a slightly strained routine. Saran would stay in their lab, concoctions brewing, and would work until they inevitably passed out from exhaustion. Diarmuid would only enter the lab to deliver food or pull them away from an explosion. As for him, Diarmuid read, played solitaire, or played one of the games on the tablet. He liked the mystery games the best, the ones where he had to solve puzzles and find hidden objects. And when Saran did sleep via passing out, he tended to enter spirit form and keep watch outside the walls of the mansion and learn the lay of the land if it was daytime, or take his spears and go through drills if it was nighttime.

Saran, he found, had some type of method to their madness. The first day awake would be spent cleaning up and making mana potions. The second day awake would be mana potions as well, but they broke it up with naps. The end of the second day and the beginning of the third would be spent on the mana boost potion. That was where most of the action, aka explosions, happened. Most of the time, they ended up not finishing the potion. Moving back from a wave of smoke or cursing as they tried to juggle five different things at once.

“Why are you stopping?” He’d asked once, when they stopped and cursed for seemingly no reason. “Everything seems to be in order.”

Saran hadn’t even looked at him as they said, “Temperature has gotten too high for this Bunsen burner. It’s still in the safe range, but it will create problems later on that I won’t be able to stop. Safer to quit now and not be roasted later.”

“I’d pull you away from an explosion before you get caught. I’ve done it before.”

They’d only shrugged, eyes locked onto their equipment as they start to wind the potion down in a way that wouldn’t blow them up. And Diarmuid watched them, just in case something did happen.

And so the days passed, and the two of them might have continued like that for the rest of the year if not for one incident that changed everything.


	7. Ideas Fueled by Sleep Deprivation are Never Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double chapter! Yay!

Saran woke in an instant, eyes wide, mind whirling, and in one movement they toppled off the sofa, stumbled out of their tangle of blankets and scrambled over to the lab. Their hands searched frantically, landed on their notebook and pencil, flipped to the section tabbed Healing Potion and started to scrawl down their thoughts. Their mouth ran while they wrote, a necessary step to slow down their thoughts before they lost them. “Why do mages use certain items over others? Is it cultural? Is it significant? What items can I use here? I have three that are good for this, but how would I incorporate, would I incorporate? What about equipment? Are the useless ones useful? Does using certain ingredients mean they don’t have to use power from their crests? But why would that work out? How? Perhaps the ingredients are just used to channel certain types of magic . . .”

They left the notebook and scrambled for their tablet, pulled up the web browser, started to research the items that their employer had given them. In any other case most of them would be useless, but this potion hadn’t worked the way it was supposed too the first time Saran had made it, even though the formula was correct. Perhaps it wasn’t the formula but the method. Healing potions were a traditional alchemical creation, so perhaps it would be more useful to use traditional methods. Saran flung open the cabinets full of what they had thought to be useless items and started to transfer them to the counter. For a second a wave of exhaustion hit them, they’d only had maybe three hours of sleep if they were lucky, but then it was pushed back by the possibility, by the idea, by the need to know if this would work.

Most of the ones pertinent to what they were doing where the plant ones, and Saran started to separate them from the rest, then they grabbed the ones that whispered against their skin the strongest. Heal, heal, heal. Of course, even then it wasn’t a very strong whisper. Very few things had the intent to heal. Saran looked at their pages, did a few calculations that sucked the time away and made their eyes bleary, before stretching and staring down at the page. Would it work? Only one way to know . . .

Time twisted into a blur of exhaustion and excitement and energized thoughts. Equipment was set up without thinking, vials pulled down. They pulled on their lab coat and gloves and shoved their safety glasses up their nose. After a few seconds pause, they tore a page out of the back of their notebook and copied down the possible formula, leaving the notebook a safe distance away from the main table.

Just in case.

They grabbed the serpentine, tipped a gem out, placed it in the mortar. They couldn't use the weakening potion, not for this, it would counteract the ability of the healing potion. Like oil and water, the two did not mix. Luckily, serpentine could fall anywhere from three to five on the mohs hardness scale, so if the hit in the right spot they should be fine. They gripped the pestle in one hand, twisted the stone then held it steady with the other. They’d have to be very careful to not hit their fingers. That would be bad, but if the potion worked, well then a few smashed fingers would be worth it. They placed the pestle on the stone, raised it, adjusted their grip, gauged their strike, then -

“Saran, what are you doing?! You’re supposed to be sleeping!”

Their train of thought fractured like a mirror that had just been struck with a brick. Their hand dropped as they twisted, their weight shifting, sending the serpentine shooting out of their other hand and against the side of the mortar. For a second they stared at the intruder, horror and anger warring for dominance. And also curiosity. It was Lancer who had interrupted them, obviously, but they hadn’t seen him when they had woken up, and now he was staring at them in shock as if he had just walked in on something wrong or unexpected.

In the end panic won, because every moment they stood staring at Lancer was a moment when their train of thought was stalled, a moment where something could go horribly wrong. They were riding the coattails of a breakthrough, they could feel it in their bones, but they wouldn’t be able to reach that break through if they were interrupted. “Lancer, stay there, over there, and don’t make a sound.” The words were sharp and angry, but the tone was pleading, desperate, because the idea was slipping, slipping, slipping out of their grasp.

So Saran did what they always did when they were chasing an idea, they tuned out the world, but it was a fragile barrier, where one spoken word could slip and crash the silence. Could break their concentration. Could make them loose the idea and the potion with it. Could make them forget . . .

Saran gripped the pestle tighter, grabbed the serpentine and held it down, and brought down the pestle hard. 

. . .

There was a sharp crack as Saran hit the stone in their hand, and Diarmuid could not suppress a wince. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he was unnerved, perhaps it was because Saran had just practically begged him to stay away and keep silent. Those sharp words were the closest they had gotten to saying please in the month they’d been here. There was an air of desperate excitement about them, half frenzy half fear, and all Diarmuid could do was settle down and watch just in case things went bad.

Somehow, he had no doubt they would.

An hour passed before they stumbled back from the table and through the divider to make theirself a cup of coffee. Diarmuid spoke then, voice tight, “I assume you are good to speak now.”

Saran waved a tired hand, “It’s safe. For now.”

“This is not a mana or mana boost potion.” It was not a question, he’d witnessed enough to recognize the procedure for either potions, and this was not it.

“No,” they grinned, an expression caught between exhaustion and feral glee, “it’s not. This is an experiment.” 

“In the middle of the night with only two and a half hours of sleep. Do you know how reckless that is?” 

They grabbed their cup, swallowed a mouthful of the steaming liquid before answering. “Don’t forget careless and stupid. I know you’re thinking that.” 

He was in fact thinking that, and he sucked in a deep breath to calm himself down. But Saran continued on, rambling into a different path entirely, driven by a brain keenly feeling the lack of sleep.

“I mean, what’s the big deal though? It’s just a bad idea, everyone makes them, just like everyone is driven by their flaws. I am, you are, flaws are what make people do anything. So what am I’m doing something reckless, careless, and stupid? So are more than a dozen people all over the world right now. The only difference is my bad idea has the potential to blow up. Besides, it’s not even a bad idea!” They drained their coffee and set the cup down, started to scurry back to the lab.

Diarmuid was frozen, fingers twitching slightly. “Do you really believe that?” Something in his voice stopped them.

“Believe what?”

“That flaws are what define people?”

They snorted. “Of course, for example, I am reckless, careless, too curious, obsessive, have no self control, care too little about what other people think, care so little about my personal welfare that it borderlines suicidal tendencies, and also have minor PTSD and Survivor’s Guilt. My three fears are extreme, but the only legitimate one I ignore while the two less legitimate ones control how I act. All of these flaws directly influence the way I act and think, as can be exemplified by what I am doing right now. You are also controlled by your flaws. You are a perfectionist who holds himself to an unattainable ideal, and you also care about what people think way too much. You are driven by those two flaws, just as I am driven by my many flaws.” Then, without looking at Diarmuid to determine the effect of their words, they entered their lab fully and shut the door behind them.

Diarmuid stood rooted to the floor, mind reeling, anger and shame bubbling up in his stomach. Because in many ways, they were right. His fingers twitched, and for a second felt his spears almost solid in his hands. Then he breathed deeply and forced the ugly emotions down and relaxed his grip. They were right, but in many ways they were wrong as well. It was a person’s good qualities that determined what they did, not their flaws. He believed that. He had to believe that. 

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t still angry, there was a tightness in his shoulders that he couldn’t get rid of, his brows were furrowed together. “You forgot something,” he called out, and only the slightest twitch from the person on the other side of the glass signified that his words were heard, “You are entirely too honest for your own good.” Then he retreated to spirit form, just in case they decided to throw something else at him that he couldn’t handle. Just in case he did something rash that couldn’t be taken back.

. . .

At his words, Saran looked over their shoulder, but Lancer was gone, so they shrugged slightly and went back to the potion. Their fervor had calmed down slightly, they had the formula, they just needed to follow it. The desperate urge to do it now had chilled, and there was also something else, an unease in their stomach that dampened their excitement down. Was it guilt? Where they feeling bad for pointing out Lancer’s flaws? It was entirely possible that they were wrong, they’d only known him for a month, but still, the flaws fit him, so . . .

Saran shook their head sharply. Did it matter what he thought? No. So why were they focusing on whether or not he’d been hurt by their words instead of the potion? Perhaps because he was the first person who’d actually done anything for them without being asked in a long time. But that had been driven by his flaws. Right? Or had he actually done it out of good faith?

They scowled again, they were thinking about something that didn’t matter, their mind going down paths that weren’t necessary. They could think about their words and his actions later. Right now, they had a potion to focus on. A possible potion, that, if it worked, could be used in a practical situation. Their original healing potion didn’t heal, it just made the affected believe they were healed. The problems were obvious. If this worked out, then the potential costs of experimenting could be decreased, and so could the cost of hospital trips and first aid kits. It would be brilliant, and very, very useful. They started to get excited again, but still, the excitement wasn’t quite as sharp as it should have been, no, it was still dulled by that thing that might have been guilt.

With a wrench, they focused all their attention to the potion, to the balances that hung around them, so fragile, so easily tipped in one way or another. Time passed, minutes counted in the bubbling of liquids and the grinding of leaves. They were throwing everything they had into this potion, and if it didn’t work, then it was no big loss. Not really, and they could always restock on supplies later. Finally, after about thirty minutes, things slowed to a crawl, and Saran could stumble away to make another cup of coffee.

Lancer had still not returned.

The hairs on the back of their neck stood up, and they couldn’t help but feel like someone was glaring at their back. Their unease had returned full force, boiling in their stomach like one of their potions. Was Lancer giving them the silent treatment? The thought was unnerving. When they had argued with Uncle, the two of them had always ended up falling into a debate. They were both reasonable people, so they tended to come to reasonable conclusions. Sometimes that conclusion was to agree to disagree, but that was still a conclusion. This didn’t feel like a conclusion, this felt like something that could pop up later at a crucial time. They sighed and grabbed their cup, hot even through their thick work gloves. They sighed, and then said, “Look, Lancer, I think it is obvious that I’ve upset you, and I . . .” they faltered, thought, then continued on, “I don’t know why. To me, flaws are just another variable, they can’t be changed, but the way you use them can. Obviously to you, they’re different. I don’t see why, I don’t understand why. People aren’t like equations, or even potions. There, one step leads to another, the outcome never changes unless the steps change. But people do . . . and I don’t know why, and I don’t understand how. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is . . .” They swallowed a mouthful of their coffee, so hot it scalded their tongue, closed their eyes and took a deep breath. What were they doing? This was contrary to their policy of rudeness. “I think I’m trying to say I’m sorry for offending you? Not exactly sure if that’s correct, but . . . take my words as you will.” They drank their coffee in a few quick gulps and set it down. They had said their piece, the unease in their stomach had settled slightly, it was time to finish the potion. No more distractions.

They ran back into the lab, were everything was still and silent, metaphorically of course. Everything was running, but the energies that had pressed against their skin had now waned into a soft thrum in their bones. The uneasiness came back, this time not borne of the maybe-guilt but a warning pulled from dozens of failed experiments over the years. They tuned out the world, tuned out reality, to focus on the potion and nothing else. They focused on the energies, hands ready for whatever needed to be done. It shouldn’t have been this quiet, it was never this quiet. They were defying reality, it shouldn’t be peaceful.

Then with the mental sound like a scream, or perhaps like nails on a chalkboard, or perhaps it wasn’t a sound at all, but a feeling of ice trailing down their spine, but in the end what it felt like didn’t matter. The point was everything started at once, and all Saran could do was try to keep up. They turned down a Bunsen burner, twisted a vial, pushed another, turned up the other Bunsen burner, turned a tap here, flicked a tube there, twisted to move a loop of pipe here. There was a chance, a small chance, and for a split second they thought that they’d managed to contain it. Then the energies rushing past their skin froze, and their scars started to ache and Saran had just enough time to throw theirself to the ground before one end of the curved table exploded into flame and glass shards, and for a second it was  _ fire and heat and pain as hot shards of metal and glass sliced through skin and the flames and the heat crawled over their hands and it wasn’t just that it was something else something cold so colditburnedanditwantedinanditrefusedtoleavethemaloneandithurtmorethanthefireortheflamesoranythingandalltheycouldwasletitinbecausetheycouldnotst _ hands around their arms jolted them out of the memory as Lancer pulled them out of the billowing heat using his own body as a shield and dragged them half stumbling out of the lab as that one explosion triggered a chain reaction that traveled across the curved table.

The door to the lab slammed shut, Lancer’s back pressed to it, Saran held to his chest. Saran didn’t move, eyes screwed shut, breath coming in panicked gasps, whole body shuddering with remembered pain. But no, they were fine, they’d been pulled back in time. Except . . . “My notebook! Is my notebook-” If they lost that, they weren’t sure what they would do, it held everything . . .

Lancer twisted to look, then said “it’s out of the blast area. Are you okay?”

Saran’s knees almost gave out with relief, and they gave a shaky laugh. “I’m okay. I could grow to hate that table though.” They pushed theirself away from him and tumbled over to the sofa to sit down and breath. Their scars were screaming, and they were so tired. And stupid, so very, very stupid. They had the formula! They could have waited a day! But they’d been so tired of doing the same thing over and over and they’d been so excited to see if it would work.

“Should we use the fire extinguisher?” 

Lancer’s voice halted the gears turning in their mind, and they looked up and stared at him. He leaned against the door, silhouetted by the light behind him, the flames that licked the table could still be seen, casting dancing shadows and sending smoke billowing towards the ceiling.. “There’s a fire extinguisher?”

He pointed, and they turned to look, and beside the other door there was indeed a fire extinguisher. “My lord had it installed a while back ago.”

“Oh.” They must have been asleep when it had been installed. They pushed theirself up and walked over and grabbed it. It was heavy, but manageable. They walked over to Lancer, “Better get this done with then.”

Lancer didn’t move, his amber eyes warm. “Thank you.”

“What?”

“For apologizing.” He got out of the way and opened up the door.

They blinked. “Oh, uh, huh.” Then they walked into the lab and started to extinguish the fires. Finally they set the can down, and stared at the wreck of their lab. Then the laughter started to bubble up, half hysterical half exhausted, and they could feel the water brimming in their sore, burning eyes. “There’s what I was fucking missing! No wonder I’ve been so out of it! It wasn’t a proper lab yet . . .” They trailed off and scrubbed their cheeks with their hands. The rough fabric against their cheeks hurt, and even the insides of the gloves irritated their skin. With a sigh, they stopped rubbing their cheeks and picked their way across the lab to the counter. They grabbed their notebook, a little singed on one corner but otherwise fine. They held it to their chest and picked their way back out of the lab and shut the door behind them.

Lancer was watching them with an odd expression on his face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

They scowled as they realized that they’d had their little breakdown in front of him. “I’m fine, or I will be. I’m just tired.”

He nodded as if in understanding, and said softly, “Would you like me to contact my lord and ask him to send someone in to clean up your lab?”

“No!” The word came out too sharp and they sighed and set their notebook on the bar. “I’ll do it myself. I made the mess, after all.” They ran a hand through their hair and started when it came out quicker than expected. They brushed it over their shoulder to examine it, and then started to grin, their laughter bubbling up again. “Hey! In fact, I think tonight had a pretty good outcome! Not only am I not dead, but I also know that I wasn’t completely wrong, I just need to adjust some of the variables. Also, I got a haircut! Win win situation!” Their voice sounded false, even though it was all true. Tonight hadn’t been a bust. It hadn’t.

Something beeped, and Saran started. Lancer, who’d been watching them with concern, pulled something out of the microwave, and passed them a cup full of steaming liquid. “Here, drink this.”

Saran took it from him, then looked down at it. “Is this tea?”

“Yes,” he moved back, unsure, “I figured coffee would be a bad idea, because you are going back to sleep after you drink that.”

“I probably should, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes, you should.”

They moved over to the sofa, sat down, and took a sip. It was good, and already the exhaustion was back, nipping at their heels like a pack of dogs. They yawned, loudly, then finished the drink off swiftly. They were about to stand up to put the cup up, but Lancer took it from their hands. “Rest Saran, your stuff will be here in the morning.”

They yawned again, “Of course it will. If only because I’ll know were it’ll go if it disappears.” Another yawn, and Saran curled up on the couch, soot-stained lab coat and all, and drifted off into slumber.


	8. Truths Given Monstrous Forms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Walks in wearing shades and drinking from a cup of angst to say, "Happy Valentines Day Everyone!"

Diarmuid went through his passes out in the hallway, spears sweeping through the air, so fast they were almost nothing but a flicker. His mind echoed the whirring patterns of his spears, following the events of the previous few hours. The argument, their apology, the explosion, their determination to turn something that dangerous into a plus. He hadn’t been fast enough to get them out in time, by the time he’d gotten the door open the first explosion had already gone off. If Saran had been just a hair slower, they might be dead.

He should have gone through the door in his spirit form, but then it would have been he would have been too slow getting them out of the room before the rest of the explosions occurred. There was no help for it, from now on he would have to make sure that Saran did not close the door behind them again.

They had apologized. Saran had apologized. Why? It didn’t make sense. If they truly wanted him to dislike them, then leaving that argument hanging in the air would have been the best way to do it. So why had they apologized? His spear cut through the air as he attacked, his other spinning a defense. It didn’t matter why they had apologized, because that didn’t change the fact that they had. So he thrust away the questions until he had a chance to ask them and focused on his spears and his footwork, and let time trickle by.

Somebody screamed, not a long drawn out one, but a short one, sharp and horrified. More a shriek then a scream, but the word shriek didn’t imply the raw terror that the word scream carried. Diarmuid moved, first into spirit form, then through the door, then he solidified, spears ready, eyes scanning for enemies. There was nobody there. Nobody but Saran, tangled in their blankets on the floor, twisted as if they’d just fallen, eyes wide and panicked, gloved hands covered their mouth as they sucked in deep, frantic breaths.

“Are you okay?” He asked, not relaxing his guard, just in case there were enemies he could not see.

Saran stared at him for a few seconds, before realizing that he was, in fact, talking to them. Then they pried their hands away from their mouth. “Uh,” they started, their voice shaking. They coughed once, then continued, “I’m fine.” At his look of doubt, they scowled, “Really, it was just a nightmare, that’s all.”

Diarmuid relaxed and let his spears return to spirit form. “Is that all?” He didn’t think that such a scream could come from something so simple as a nightmare. But, then again . . .

Their scowl deepened, and they turned away from him, moving till their back was pressed against the couch and they could wrap their arms around their knees. They did so, looking oddly frail at that moment. Diarmuid decided it was because part of their hair had been burned off. The missing few inches made them look smaller, less imposing. “Yes,” and their voice wasn’t as testly as he thought it would be, “It was just a fucking nightmare.”

“Well then,” he looked around awkwardly, before inspiration struck. “Do you need anything?”

They stiffened, then said softly, “Milk would be nice if we have it.” Then they shook, their head and started to get up, “I can-”

“No, let me.” 

They settled back down, chin resting on their knees, staring at the opposite wall. Diarmuid made their drink, then after a seconds pause, poured himself a cup as well. He liked milk. He passed one cup to Saran, then settled down on the other end of the couch, cup in hand, watching them take a cautious sip. “You know,” he said softly, “It’s okay to have nightmares.”

“I know that.” They frowned, and swallowed tightly, “I know that all too well.” Their voice was resigned, quiet, and for a second he thought they wouldn’t elaborate, but then they started again, cup held tightly in their hands. “I used to have nightmares a lot, as a child. My mama used to tell me that my nightmares were simply my subconscious trying to tell me what I was afraid of. That they were simply truths given monstrous forms. She said that if I acknowledged them, they wouldn’t appear in my dreams.” They sipped their milk again, falling silent.

Diarmuid tried to imagine them as a child, scared and finding comfort in their mother’s arms. He found that he couldn’t, Saran seemed too independent, too strong-willed to have ever relied on someone else as much a child relied on a parent. “She sounds like a smart woman.”

“She was.”

Was, past tense. Diarmuid took a sip of his own milk and looked at the ceiling, choosing his next words carefully. “When I was younger, or, well, alive, I used to have nightmares about being gored to death by a boar.” That was suitably vague enough that his lord shouldn’t be too annoyed. He doubted that Saran knew his legend either way, but still, he had to be careful.

Saran huffed softly. “A boar, huh?”

“They are terrifying.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” 

“They really are.” He tried not to let the indignation sound in his voice, but he had a feeling he hadn’t quite succeeded.

Saran laughed, not loud, not long, but it was there, and Diarmuid nearly jumped out of his seat at the sound. Saran didn’t laugh, not unless they were going on three days on no sleep or something had just exploded causing their laughter to be tinged with hysteria. But no, this was an honest laugh, a little sad, and a little tired, but still amused. Their laughter trailed off, and they sighed, “I guess I should tell you mine then, huh.”

“You don’t have to.”

“No, it’s only fair. A nightmare for a nightmare.” They swallowed the rest of their milk and set the cup on the floor. “It always starts the same,” they said the words softly, hesitantly as if they had never spoken them before, “I’m in the lab, and everything is going right, until it’s not. And this time I’m not fast enough to get out of the way, this time I’m caught in the blast. And it’s only a second before I black out but it feels like eternity, and then I wake up, and I’m in the hospital, _again_.” Their breath shuddered, and they closed their eyes and sighed. “Only this time I’m not so lucky.” Their arms tightened around their legs and their shoulders hunched. “Sometimes it’s my hands, burned so badly that I can’t use them anymore. Sometimes it’s my eyes, sometimes it’s my spine, sometimes it’s my brain. There was this man, Phineas Gage, who took an iron rod through the head and lived, but his personality changed drastically, and all these other problems rose up. I had a dream, three years ago, I want to say, where I woke up in the hospital with something like that. Tonight wasn't that bad, so that’s a plus.” Their voice was falsely cheerful as they spoke those last words, and for a while they sat in silence before saying, “Tonight it was my memory. Woke up in the hospital with no clue who I was or what I was doing there except that I was covered in burns I knew that I was missing something important. That’s when I woke up, and I guess freaked you out as well.”

Saran had said that they had three fears, and now Diarmuid knew one of them. Saran was afraid of a lab accident that prevented them from doing what they loved. And then something else clicked. _In the hospital, again. Only this time I’m not so lucky._ There were plenty of other reasons besides hiding command seals to wear gloves, and he thought he might have just figured out what Saran’s reason was. “You know Saran,” he said softly, “You are a very brave person.”

Saran stiffened. “I don’t know where the hell you’re getting that from, but I’m hardly brave. I’m careless, and reckless, but not brave.”

“No, if you were careless and reckless, you wouldn’t take precautions, but you do. Therefore you are brave.”

“I’m not-”

“Take the compliment,” Diarmuid leaned back in his seat to drink his milk, watching Saran carefully. Their hair cast shadows on their face, and their cheek was smudged with soot. Their teal eyes were narrowed, face twisted slightly, he couldn’t tell with what. Annoyance, perhaps. Or maybe remembered pain.

“Fine,” they muttered, sullenly.

Diarmuid smiled into his cup of milk.

. . .

Saran’s fear hadn’t completely abated, just turned to worry, a worry that gnawed at the edges of their mind, thrumming in tune with the ache in their scars. It was annoying, and so was the fact that they wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon. They never slept after that dream. Never. They were still tired, their eyelids heavy, but their mind would not let them sleep. Not when they knew what awaited them in their sleep.

No doubt it was the exhaustion that had made them tell Lancer so much.

“Why?” They burst out, twisting to stare at him, “Why are you so-” They flailed around for the word, but they couldn’t find it.

Lancer raised an eyebrow. “Nice to you?”

“Yes,” Saran met his eyes, their own feeling hot. Stupid exhaustion. “Nobody is nice to me. Nobody.” Not since Uncle.

“Perhaps because you’re so rude to them.” He pointed out, amber eyes gleaming, with what? Humor? Pity? They couldn’t tell and that annoyed them. He smiled, softly, as if they were a spooked animal he was trying to calm down. “I am a very patient person, but I’ll admit, you’ve pushed me to my limits a couple of times.” He sighed, “But I try to see the good in people. And there are very few people that I hate on sight.”

“That,” they bit out, “explains nothing.” Making food they could get. But doing this, talking to them as if he knew they needed to just get the words out. Out of their mind and off his chest. Perhaps he was curious, perhaps his Master had ordered him to. But Saran couldn’t see what his Master could gain from learning about their nightmares.

“Because,” he said softly, “I get the feeling that,” he frowned thinking, as if trying to find the right words, “you’re lonely, and that you’re refusing to admit it. Also because I’m stuck here for a year, so I would prefer us to be on good terms.” But they had been on good terms, ish. “Besides, when was the last time you actually talked to someone? And potential buyers or landlady’s don’t count.”

Saran didn’t know. Wait, that was wrong, they did know. It was right after everything went wrong. They sighed. “Seven, maybe eight years ago.”

“Eight years!” They could hear the startlement in his voice.

“Yes, eight years. Things happened.” They waited for him to ask what happened, but he didn’t.

What he did say was, “So you are lonely.”

“I’m not lonely! I’ve been doing perfectly fine by myself!” They weren’t lonely. They weren’t!

He raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought you were honest.”

“I-”

“If you weren’t lonely, as you claim, I doubt that you would have told me anything beyond that you had a nightmare.”

Saran turned away from him and allowed their head to land on their knees with a thump. “Huh.” They thought for a second, then cursed, “Dammit, I think you’re right. I might be a little bit lonely. Fucking shit.” They sighed and closed their eyes, sighed heavily. “Fuck.” And they’d been doing so good too.

Lancer laughed softly, “You might not have noticed it before,” he pointed out, “when you were busy avoiding everyone, but it’s hard to ignore something like that when you’ve been cooped up in the same rooms as another person for a long time.” He paused for a second, “Eight years,” he said. He almost sounded impressed, but his tone had more than a little dose of horror in it. Horrified amazement.

Saran groaned. 

He changed the subject, as if he knew that they needed a break from the topic. Saran figured he did, know. In fact, Saran was pretty sure by now that Lancer was learning a lot from their body language alone. “So what do you do for fun? Besides experimenting, that is.”

“I dunno, it's been a while.” They admitted, still not looking at him.

“A while?”

“. . . eight years,” they admitted.

“Surely you take breaks?”

“Yeah, days I devoted entirely to sleeping.”

“Sick days?”

“Spent sleeping.”

“You can’t just spend all your time experimenting. Or sleeping.”

Saran grinned then, back on familiar territory. “You see, that’s where you are wrong. I can! Because no matter what I do, I always have something else ready. Another idea to address. My notebook is filled with them. When I get bored with one thing, I can just move to something else and work on that. Besides, it takes a month, at least, to create a new potion. Sometimes more. My fake healing potion took three. My mana boost took half a year. There are so many steps and so many possibilities, it’s like finding a needle in a haystack!” Their voice was filled with barely restrained wonder and glee, and they could feel a grin creep across their face at the very thought of the process of creating a new potion.

“Sound’s tedious.” Lancer injected.

“But it’s not! Because everything is connected to something else, and that thing is connected to another. And there’s so many different ways things could play out. And one failed way can lead to a whole other way of doing something entirely! Which leads to other ideas that can be addressed!” They were starting to ramble, and they shut their mouth quickly.

“I’ll take your word for it.” He sounded amused, not like he was trying to find a way to escape, which was most people’s reaction when Saran got on a tangent. And it was that amusement that finally banished the last of their fear . . .

Banished the last of their fear . . .

Their fear . . .

_Fear._

And just like that, Saran’s mind jumped from A to C, completely disengaged itself from the conversation, and focused solely on the idea that had just sprung into their mind. It was as if a match had just been struck in a pitch black room, an from nothing but a receded feeling. How could they not have thought of this before? It seemed so simple! So obvious! And as their eyes widened, and their body stiffened, Saran’s mind began to race.


	9. And Then There Were Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry for the slow update, but I'm back!

Fear, what a simple thing. It could be either sensible or irrational, from the fear of dying to the fear of spiders to the fear of clowns. Not everyone was compassionate, or kind, or rude, but everyone had a fear. It was the one thing everyone had in common, a fear of something. And if that fear could be tapped, could be pushed or could be harnessed . . .

They needed their notebook. They needed their notebook now.

Saran stumbled up, barely managing to avoid their empty cup, and scrambled over to where their notebook lay on the counter, flipping the pages rapidly until the page labeled IDEAS was in view. It was a scrawled list of words and phrases, some crossed out and some circled. Most were illegible, even to Saran’s eyes. Their handwriting was not the best, especially when they had an idea clamoring for attention in their mind, begging to be released. Pencil! They needed a pencil! Where was their pencil?

“Saran?” said Lancer, pushing himself up from the couch, uneasiness in his voice, “What’s wrong?”

Saran started searching, looking under their notebook, hands patting the table for a thing that was not there. “Fear is what’s wrong. Well, technically it’s what’s right, I should have seen it sooner! Why the Hell did I not see it? And where the Hell is my pencil?” Their voice was frantic and panicked as the idea ran through their mind, like a train, unstoppable and headed to its conclusion. How would a fear potion even work? Would it send someone into a nightmare landscape? But that would mean applying it to the target directly, and nobody would allow Saran to apply an unknown potion to them, especially if they knew what that unknown potion was supposed to do. It would be more practical to apply it as an area effect. A gas? Or something else? How would they even make a gas? Technically, they made smoke when things exploded, and smoke was in the matter state of gas. Yet they’d never tried to figure out whether the smoke emitted from their explosions had some of the same properties their potions should have had. They would have to make a potion and purposely make it explode and then record what the gas did.

Something was pushed into their hand, it felt like a writing implement of some type, and then Saran was scrawling in their messy handwriting: Fear Gas/Smoke. And then: record properties of smoke from explosions.

What if whoever was using the potion wanted to scare others into that nightmare state but was incapable of carrying a gas mask. What then? Could a potion be applied to them to scare other people away? As in people looked at the person wearing the potion and then ran screaming? That would be too noticeable though, and could draw the attention of the authorities. But make it a lesser effect . . . not something that scared people, but made them uneasy and less likely to approach. That could work. But still, even making people uneasy could draw the wrong type of attention, it would be better to simply disappear altogether . . . oh.

Saran suddenly felt ridiculously stupid. Here they were, being rude to people when they could have just created an invisibility potion. Still, a potion like that would not only have to protect the wearer from human eyes, but magical eyes as well. And sensors! Or cameras! Protection from any kind of detection, if possible. And everything was possible if they tried hard enough. It would be less invisibility and more undetectability. Below their previous notes they scrawled Intimidation and Undetectability. They set down their pencil and blew out their breath, waiting for another idea to spark off that one. Nothing came, their brain was done, for the minute at least.

“I see what you mean,” said a voice, “about always having something new to experiment on.”

Saran shrieked, jumping back and almost toppling over. Lancer stopped them from falling, his amber eyes glinting with barely concealed amusement. “You have got to stop forgetting I’m here. It’s starting to become a hazard to your health.” He said, a smirk playing across his lips. There, and then it was gone.

Saran groaned, running a hand through their hair as far as it could go before it snagged on a knot. “Yah, well.” They stopped, awkwardly, as they realized that not only had they ran from the conversation, but he hadn’t tried to pull them out of their idea either. Most people would have. Most people would have tried to grab their attention and thus caused them to lose the thought. Yet Lancer hadn’t. “Huh. Uhhhh, thanks?” Lancer blinked as if startled, taking a step back to stare at them properly, amber eyes narrowed in thought. “What?” They asked, a bit sharply, voice a bit uncertain. They hadn’t done anything wrong, had they?

“You just said thanks.”

“So?”

“And you apologized before.”

“And your point is?”

“My point is that you are no longer being rude to me. Or not as rude as you were before tonight.” He said, eyes gleaming with . . . pleasure? Something. He didn’t look angry, or annoyed, or even disappointed.

“Huh,” said Saran. Then again for greater emphasis. “Huh.”

“Does this mean,” Lancer said, smiling slightly, “that you are done being rude to me?”

Saran frowned, staring at their page of ideas, turning the idea over and over in their mind. Were they done being rude to Lancer? “You know, I think I am. Done being rude to you. Probably.” What an odd thought, they weren’t sure how to feel about that.

. . .

Dairmuid almost laughed. There was something so awkward about Saran’s face in that moment, an uncomfortableness as if they didn’t like the words they were saying. But it would have been rude to laugh at them, and he wasn’t going to be rude when they had just admitted that they were probably done being rude to him. So he changed the subject, for their sake. “An undetectability potion? And a intimidation potion? Why both? It would be better to choose one and stick with it.”

Saran shrugged, closing their notebook with a soft thump. “Why not?”

That seemed to be their answer to everything potion and experiment related. “I will tell my lord about those ideas in the morning. I think he will be interested.”

“Why?”

Dairmuid smirked slightly. He loved tactics. “Both could be useful in the war to come. To be able to intimidate an opponent easily would be a great advantage on the battlefield. After all, the fight doesn’t just take place between bodies, it also takes place between minds. Being able to make my opponent uneasy could mean the difference between life and death. As for invisibility, that is something I wouldn’t use, but my master might.”

“Really?” They asked, frowning slightly. “For some reason, I thought you would consider doing something like that cheating.”

One of his noble phantasms neutralized magic. The other caused wounds that could not heal, a curse. Both could be considered cheating in some ways. “Going by that line of thought, I’m cheating by using your mana boost. In battle, in a fight to the death, there is no such thing as cheating, just honorable and dishonorable tactics. It would be insulting to a strong opponent if I did not use everything I had to defeat them. Therefore, using my resources is honorable. However, being forced to fight a single person two on one is dishonorable.” Using his curse to his advantage would be dishonorable. “Not using the invisibility potion would be a manner of circumstance. I would not use it unless absolutely necessary, and I was facing an opponent who outclassed me in every aspect even with all my other tactics. If I were you, however, and I had to fight, then I would use the invisibility potion as often as possible.”

“If you were me,” said Saran, “I would be you. And if I were you, I would learn how to shoot a sniper rifle so I could just pick off my targets without actually having to, you know, fight them. And it’s not an invisibility potion, it's an undetectability potion.”

“What’s the difference?” He asked, slightly teasing but mostly serious. If Saran was correcting him, then it had to be important. Or they were just being picky.

“Invisibility is protection from being seen. Undetectability is protection from being detected. What’s the difference between tactics and cheating?” Saran said, teal eyes focused on him, questioning. “I’ll tell you,” they continued, “There isn’t one. It’s just connotation. Tactics has a better connotation than cheating does, therefore you call what you do tactics. I call it cheating.”

“The difference is,” Diarmuid said, frowning, “that one is honorable and one is not.” He hoped another argument wasn’t brewing. He had a limit of one major argument a day.

“Agree to disagree?” Saran offered, and Diarmuid nodded slowly.

“Agree to disagree, word choice isn’t worth it.” Not right now, at least.

“Anyway,” Saran continued, with a sharp, quick grin, “I’m surprised you don’t think of using the invisibility potion as cowardice.”

“Cowardice is running away,” Dairmuid said, still a bit testily. “As long as the invisibility potion is used to gain an advantage in a confrontation, then it is not cowardice. However, if it is used to flee, then it is cowardice.”

“What if it was a strategic retreat and not running away?”

“If I answer that question, you’re just going to say the difference is connotation, aren’t you?”

Saran paused for a second, their eyes narrowed slightly as they considered the question. Finally, they said, “You’re right, I am.” They hesitated again, then said, “Sorry?” as if they were only half-way sure that sorry was the word they wanted.

Diarmuid closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “How long has it been since you were actually polite? Wait, let me guess. Eight years.” Saran didn’t answer, and when he glanced at them, they were studying the cover of their notebook. He closed his eyes again and took another deep breath, not sure what to feel. Finally, he released it, “You should get to bed, you still haven’t slept long enough.”

Saran looked through the divider into their lab with something like longing in their eyes. “I’m not going to sleep,” they said, words soft and quiet.

“And why not?” He asked, smothering his annoyance. They were not going to prance back into their lab and just continue on with their experiments. They were not. Not on his watch.

Saran leaned against the counter. “If I go back to sleep, I’ll have the dream again, and I’ll wake up screaming, and then we’ll be right back where we started. So, I’m going to clean up the lab, and then I’m going to take a shower, and then I will go to sleep.” They looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “If that’s okay with you?”

“I’m good with that, as long as you let me help you.” It would get done quicker that way.

They considered this for a second before saying, “I’m fine with that, as long as you know where everything goes.”

He snorted faintly, “I do, I’ve been watching you for a month now, remember?”

Saran snickered, “Stalker much? Now, where’s the tablet?”

“Why?”

“Have you read Artemis Fowl yet?” They asked, grinning slightly, but there was an eagerness to that grin that made him nervous.

“No,” Diarmuid answered, getting a sinking feeling in his gut.

“Then you’re in for a treat,” they said, and their grin spread across their face until all Diarmuid could see was teeth.

. . .

It didn’t take them as long as Saran thought it would to clean the lab. The glass was swept up and deposited in the trash, and Saran had sifted what was salvageable out of the equipment and set it on the counter. The soot had been scrubbed off the table and the ceiling, but the scorch marks weren’t coming out for anything. Lancer was now officially invested in the story of one Irish child genius and his eight book long character development from villain to hero. In only two hours of listening to the book too. After all of that, Saran had called it a day’s work, had snagged a potion from the cabinet, and then retreated to the bathroom to clean off. 

Now they were staring at the mirror in the bathroom, and their reflection was staring back at them. Their teal eyes glinted out of dark shadows, soot stained one cheek, and their hair was a tangled mess that ended in burnt edges. They picked at a lock of hair, twirling it between their fingers and examining it. Sometimes, when Saran had been caught in a particularly strong explosion, things happened. Things like their hair changing color. But it didn’t look like that was happening now, and it probably wouldn’t happen at all. It was a rare side effect. Still, they would apply the potion, just in case. 

They peeled off their gloves, staring for a second at their hands, staring at their scars, staring at the memories. Then Saran Secada shook their head, and focused on the present and their plan for the next day. Shower, and then, hopefully, a sleep free of dreams. And then, after a good night’s rest, they would see how much supplies they had and how many experiments they could run before they passed out.


	10. The Great Heroic Spirits are Ghosts Debate

Saran slept solidly for the next day, and Diarmuid couldn’t help but be relieved. He’d been afraid that they would have simply slept for an hour before jumping up and proclaiming that they were going to blow up the lab again. Perhaps that thought was a little bit unfair, but just because it was unfair didn’t mean it rang untrue. Saran, for all their fear of a lab incident, could not be stopped for long, especially if they were running on little to no sleep.

But they didn’t jump up after an hour, and Diarmuid allowed himself to relax slightly. He retreated to spirit form, and stalked the hallways of the mansion, checking in at random intervals. But each time he checked in, the view was the same. Saran, sprawled on the couch in a tangle of blankets, hair a mess and body twisted in awkward looking angles, breathing softly as they slept. 

In the end, Diarmuid’s rounds took him to the roof, where he looked over the grounds and went through his forms. With the sky above and the wind in his hair, he could relax completely, and doing his forms on the roof gave him the chance to try his balance. Not that it was a real challenge, but it still counted as a chance to test his skills. Finally, he drew to a close, tilting his head up to watch the sky. He stayed that way as the sun went on its path, as the sky darkened and as the stars came out, then as the sky brightened as the sun rose again. 

In spirit form, time passed differently, and the hours spent watching the sky felt like minutes. If minutes could stretch out for eternity. The time there gave him a chance to think, to breath in air untainted by magic and chemicals. He missed this, the outdoors, the sky and the wind and the trees and the birdsong. The chance to simply exist with no worries, just the world around him. Saran seemed perfectly capable of staying in their lab forever, but he needed this. He needed this more than he remembered.

Eventually, though, he had to go back to his duties. So he made his way down into the mansion and towards Saran’s lab, still feeling the sun’s warmth upon his face.

. . .

When Saran woke, their room was dark, and they were alone. They blinked, sitting up and rubbing their eyes, looking around. But Lancer did not appear. They weren’t sure how they felt about that. Glee at finally being left to their own devices? Worry about why he had disappeared? Fear that he was never going to come back? Relief that they wouldn’t have to worry about what he thought? It was a confusing tangle of emotions that they were not going to touch with a ten foot pole. They had other things to think about. More important things.

Like the fancy new ideas that were calling their name.

Saran scrambled off the couch and out of their blankets, grabbed an apple and then their notebook, then careened into their lab, flipping on lights as they did so. Before they could do anything too exciting, they needed to go through their supplies, figure out what could or could not be used. They stuck their apple in their mouth, set their notebook on the counter, and started opening the cabinets.

The results were disappointing.

They only had one vial of stuff labeled hidden left, and they weren’t going to use that for an undetectability potion. That went towards more important things. As for fear . . . there was nothing. Not a single thing. Stones could rarely be used to make people afraid, at least none of the stones they had could be used that way. As for the plants their benefactor had given them, Saran could barely remember what they were used for. The ones separated from the main group were for healing. But the rest? They hadn’t written what they could do down, too caught up in their previous idea. They would have to go through them again, and label them so they could be used easily in the future. Then they would have to go scroll the internet for stones that increased feelings of fear. Or something along those lines. Then they would have to order objects that could have fear connected to them. But what?

Well, they would figure that out after they got the rest of their research done. They grabbed the tablet, sat on the counter, picked up a jar, and started their research.

. . .

When Diarmuid arrived, Saran was wide awake, a half eaten apple in their mouth, tapping away on their tablet, notebook open beside them and jars around them. Diarmuid sighed, shaking his head as he headed towards the kitchen. “I’m making an actual breakfast so you don’t try to last the day with just an apple.”

He wasn’t facing them, but he knew he had startled them. He could tell by the way they started coughing and sputtering. “Where were you?” They asked once they’d managed to gain some control over their vocal cords.

“Practicing.”

“You need to practice?”

“Technically, no,” he started to pull ingredients out of the fridge, “but I like to. What are you doing?”

“Research,” they said, and he could hear the scratch of a pen against glass. “I’m figuring out what I have and what I will need for what I plan to do.”

“You’re not continuing with your mana and mana boost potions?”

They groaned and he could imagine them rolling their eyes. “I’ve made so many mana potions I’ve lost count. I’ve managed four mana boost potions this month. A detour will not hurt your Master’s chances in this war. Did you tell him about my ideas?”

“I was going to wait until you figured out what you wanted to do. I do not plan on bothering him for no reason.”

“Well, whatever you think best. You know him better than I do.” They fell silent as they turned back to their work. Leaving Diarmuid alone to consider their words. Did he know his lord better then they did? He barely conversed with him, and he didn’t even know his lord's wish. That was a mistake, one he should rectify now.

_ “My lord, may I bother you for a moment?” _

Almost immediately, he had a reply.  _ “Go ahead.” _

_ “Saran has had an idea, technically three, that they are planning to work on for a little bit before returning to their mana and mana boost potions. I thought you would be interested in these three ideas.” _

_ “Oh?” _

_ “One is a fear gas potion. I believe the intention of that one is to send anyone who breathes it in into a nightmare landscape formed by their own fears. The second is an intimidation potion, one that would allow whomever wore it to scare or at least unnerve everyone around them. The third is a undetectability potion. It prevents the user from being sensed by anything, be it average senses to magic to technology.” _

For a long time there was no reply as his lord mulled over his words.  _ “I see,”  _ his lords said finally,  _ “any one of these could be useful in the battle to come. Secada has my permission to continue to work on these ideas as long as they keep why they are here in their mind.” _

_ “I understand, my lord.”  _ He doubted that Saran would though, just he doubted his lord would be able to stop Saran once they were on the trail of these potions. From what he had seen, Saran had a one track mind in which the only thing that mattered was what was right in front of them. His lord didn’t seem the type to understand that single-minded focus, that ability to live in the now and not what might come to happen.  _ “One last thing, my lord. If I am allowed to ask, what wish would you have the Grail grant you?” _

Another long pause. Then,  _ “I wish for the Root. And you, Lancer, what is your wish?” _ Was there a note of worry in his voice, or a note of bitterness? Diarmuid couldn’t tell.

_ “My only wish is to bring you victory in the battle to come.” _

_ “Good.” _

His lord’s presence faded from his mind with that word, and Diarmuid stood frozen, staring at the wall. For some reason, he was feeling a sense of foreboding that didn’t fit with the conversation he’d just had. But he shook that sense off and focused on the task at hand.

. . .

Saran set the last jar aside, inwardly cursing. Nothing for fear. They were here for mana and mana boost potions, so naturally, the supplies they’d been given were all of that variety. There might be differences in applications or usage that would help them out, but to find those out, they would need an actual spellbook. Saran didn’t have a spellbook, all they had was the internet. Which was full of wanna be mages or sites wanting to sell plants by making them all spiritual or have good vibes or whatever. Because of this, they doubted they would find anything about stones that caused fear either. Or just negative emotions in general. Maybe under setting curses, but even then that was stretching it.

Still, everything had an equal and opposite effect. They’d already found out stones used for clear memory could also be used to cloud memory. It all dealt with intent. Perhaps they could pull something like that here? Either way, the internet was a shaky source at the best of times, even for positive affects. They would prefer not wasting too many resources before hitting the magic rock or plant.

Which was why they needed a spellbook.

They needed a spellbook pronto.

Sienna sighed, setting the tablet aside and running their hands through their hair. Technically, they didn’t need the stones or the plants, but those were what focused the potion, what made it so they didn’t gobble through their supplies. Perhaps a general amplifier? It couldn’t hurt to try. But they would prefer something that actually pertained to what they were trying to do. Saran groaned, rubbing their eyes with their gloved hands. They were being picky and they knew it, did it matter what they used as long as it worked? No. Still, the potions always went together easier if they didn’t use shortcuts. They sucked in a deep breath to calm their circling thoughts, and got a lungful of something that smelled wonderful. “What is that?”

Lancer, who was still in the midst of cooking, looked at them and smiled, amber eyes glowing softly. “Well, in the light of our newly found mutual understanding, the fact you are no longer going out of your way to be rude, and my dawning realization that you might be a semi decent person under all your abrasive layers, I have decided to splurge and try out this new recipe I have found.”

Semi decent person? Saran wasn’t sure whether to be offended or disgusted or confused. However, that wasn’t important. Nothing mattered but the potion. “Huh. Okay then, how long?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“Wonderful.” Their stomach growled. They ignored it, instead grabbing their tablet and looking up stones for causing fear. As they expected, nothing. Then they looked up stones for causing negative emotions. As expected, a whole lot of jack squat. Finally, in a last ditch effort, they looked up stones for curses. The results made them grin. “Bingo.” Who needed old moldy mage spellbooks? Not this person.

Twenty minutes later, Saran had a list scribbled out in their notebook. The most likely stones for what they wanted were kyanite, black onyx, and diamond. Kyanite could be used to get into someone’s head, black onyx could be used to mentally torment someone, aka, nightmares. Diamond could be used for mental confusion. There were also a few potentially useful stones they already had that could be used in this regard. Obsidian for overwhelming emotions, and opal for negative amplification.

Of all the stones, they were most worried about diamond. Diamond was expensive, however, if they replaced it with clear quartz, which dealt with memory . . . yes, it might work. Push with intent to change memories into bad memories, plus kyanite, plus obsidian, plus black onyx. With that combination, they probably wouldn’t even need an amplification stone, even if they would still need a source of fear. The equation would be complicated, very very complicated. The mana boost potion was their most complicated potion to date. But that one only had three stones, this one would have up to four.

Saran started to laugh, a grin stretching across their face. This was going to be fun.

The sound of their laughter startled Lancer, and he stared at them for a second with wary eyes before asking, “What is it?” He sounded suspicious, cautious. He knew them well enough to know something was up.

“It lives!”

Amusement flashed across his features, “Well, it will have to postpone living until after breakfast. Food is ready.”

. . .

Diarmuid watched Saran eat with barely concealed amusement. They ate as if it was their first meal in years, scarfing down the food while the gears in their mind turned. Diarmuid shook his head, and then focused on his own meal. He didn’t have to eat, but he figured he should at least partake in this somewhat celebratory meal. He ate slowly, savoring the food. He was still eating when Saran stood up to dump their plate in the sink. They walked with a bounce in their step. “I assume that things are going well?”

They froze for a second, shoulders stiffening. For a moment, their good mood seemed to falter. “Yeah, it is.”

“Do you mind explaining for me? I’m afraid I won’t understand if you don’t.” They stood for a second, too quiet, and Diarmuid realized his blunder. They’d said they’d had a helper who’d grown frustrated and blew herself up. That, he realized, must have happened eight years ago. That must have been what pushed them to locking out the outside world. “Only if you want to though. If you do decide to tell me, I won’t tell my lord.” It didn’t feel like a betrayal, or even a small one, though it should have.

“Not unless he asks.” It wasn’t a question.

“Not unless he asks.” And that was why it didn’t feel like a betrayal.

For a second Saran seemed to war with themself, then they turned to face him. Their face wasn’t blank, it was cautious. They were taking a leap and trusting him, consciously, not while they were drunk on sleep deprivation or the last vestiges of a nightmare. He felt honored. “Well,” they started, “I thought I would be doing this with limited resources, I thought I was going to have to take shortcuts.” Their voice was starting to go faster, glee at their idea pushing away their caution. They were grinning, their teal eyes glittering. “But, it turns out I don’t! There are stones out there that I can use for this! Which means this can be done relatively safely, without short cuts! But all I need now is something that holds . . .” They stopped, staring blankly at him.

“What?” He asked, warily. There was something in the way that they were looking at him that was sending up all kinds of warning systems.

“Creepy dolls.” They said, “supposedly haunted objects. Things that make people uncomfortable, that's what I need.” They fell into muttering, pacing back and forth, back and forth. “I’ll have to order a lot though to get what I need. Or I need to buy from weird places. Are there places that sell old, creepy, Victorian dolls? I don’t know. It would be so much simpler to just grab from this place, but-” They stopped again, staring at him. Calculating this time. “What’s your stance on haunting people?”

For a second the question didn’t register, then he couldn’t stop his surprised outburst. “What! No! I’m not a ghost!”

Saran blinked, “Tied to an object that was significant to you in some way, can turn invisible, can pass through solid objects, doesn’t have to eat or sleep, is somebody from the past who is dead. Sounds like a ghost to me.”

He didn’t want to know where they were going with this. “I cannot exist in this world without a master to supply me mana-”

“Needs to feed off of some sort of energy to exist-”

“I’m a Heroic Spirit-”

“Spirit is just another word for ghost-”

“I can die.”

Saran opened their mouth then closed it. “Fine, you’re not a ghost. But, you can act like one. For a little while at least. I just need you to hang around certain objects while I’m sleeping, and give whoever walks by a feeling of unease. Scare them a bit. It will be as easy as pie and no one will get hurt.”

Diarmuid sighed, “Saran, I am not terrorizing the staff so you can make a potion.”

For a second they just stared at him, then they shrugged. “Whatever, it’s not like I can make you. I’ll be over here, on my tablet, looking up sites to buy crap tons of creepy dolls in the faintest hope that I can at least use one of them.” For a second, their gaze rested on his plate, then they coughed uncertainty. “Uh, thanks, for the food.”

Diarmuid blinked. He’d thought they had forgotten, he hadn’t expected them to remember. He smiled at them. “You’re welcome.” Then the rest of their statement registered. “Why will you need creepy dolls? How can they be used for potions?” He hesitated, then said softly, “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

Saran leaned against the counter, brow furrowed in thought. Finally, they said, “Most mages connect to mana on an elemental level, fire, earth, yada yada. I don’t. I connect to mana on a . . . emotional level, that’s the best way to describe it. When I sense mana, I don’t get the elemental type, I get the emotion or intent behind the mana. So for these fear potions, I need a source of mana that is connected to fear. Which is why I’m grabbing creepy dolls. The creepier the better. As soon as I have that source of fear, I can draw it into a state I can then use for my potions.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“It is, that’s why it's fun Now, go do something somewhere else. Or read a book or something. I’ve got a crap ton of creepy dolls I need to buy.”


	11. Insert Chucky the Doll Joke Here

Once again the days passed, but for Saran they went in a blur of motion. They couldn’t do anything with their new ideas until the supplies came in, so instead they went back to the monotonous mana and mana boost potions, their mind awash with eagerness for what would come. In those few weeks, they ruined more batches then they finished, too eager and impatient to focus on what they should have been doing. Today was the worst though, today was the day that their supplies were supposed to come in, and Saran knew they weren’t going to be able to sleep until they got the first step done.

Saran flipped a lever and twisted a vial, then adjusted the Bunsen burner slightly, restraining the urge to whistle. They were working on a mana potion currently, it was safer in their frenzied state. They were jittery with excitement and caffeine, their vision blurring with the need to sleep. They had passed the threshold of twenty second blackouts long ago, and was pretty certain that if they continued refusing to sleep, Lancer would knock them out to make sure they slept. 

Lancer.

The thought made them pause, because they weren’t sure what to think. Even weeks later, that night confused them, and sent them down a fruitless path of why. Why had he talked to them? Why had he tried to help them? If their positions had been switched, Saran wouldn’t have helped or talked to him.

People were weird. They weren’t like potions, or science, or even magic. Those things were logical, action and reaction, you had certain steps you could follow. Plug in x and you would get the same answer over and over. If you didn’t then you knew that you had done something wrong, and you could find out what and fix it. Simple. People weren’t like that. You couldn't plug in x and get the same answer every time. People didn’t react to the same thing twice. Which was why Saran didn’t interact with people, there was always a mutual not understanding. People didn’t get Saran, and Saran didn’t get people. It was easier to ignore the outside world and focus on their work. 

Speaking of work . . .

Saran reached out and turned a nozzle, flicked a vial full of liquid, and made other minor adjustments, forcing their mind to focus. Just this one, just this one, and then they could take a break. Maybe. And for a while they managed, going through the motions, focused on nothing but the potion, then there was a knock on the door and Saran’s concentration shattered. They heard Lancer’s soft tread, listened as he greeted the person at the door. “Hello, may I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m looking for a Saran Secada. Do you know where I can find them? I have a delivery for them.”

“Ah, I’ll take that. They don’t like being interrupted in their work.”

“Oh, Okay then. Here you go sir. Be careful, it’s heavy.”

“No worries, thank you for your time.”

“It’s no problem, really. Have a good day.”

“You as well.” The door shut, and there was a heavy thunk as Lancer set down the package on the counter. “How many dolls did you order?” He asked, and they could hear the faint trace of amusement in his voice.

Saran abandoned the potion, rushing out of the lab and closing the door behind them as the unfinished concoction exploded. It was a very minor explosion, with more smoke than bang. Smoke. Lots of smoke. Saran rushed back into the lab, scribbled down a note in their notebook then ran back out into the entrance room, pushing their safety glasses up their face as they did so. “Alot,” they said, “but it's not just creepy dolls. I had to buy other supplies as well.” They ran their hands over the box, then tried to pull the tape off. It didn’t work, of course, their lab gloves were not made for opening taped boxes. “Scissors, I need scissors. Do we even have scissors? I’m certain we have scissors somewhere.”

“If you would allow me,” said Lancer, “I think I might be able to help.” Saran looked at him and his barely restrained smirk, and shrugged, stepping away from the box. Lancer reached out one hand, and something materialized out of thin air, taking form in his grip. It was a spear, a short one, wrapped in dark fabric with a yellow blade. It had some type of design on it, one that disappeared underneath the dark fabric.

“Huh,” said Saran. “Lancer, I get it now.”

Lancer gave them a look, one of surprise, complete with raised eyebrow, “You didn’t get that before now?” He said, cutting the tape and then dismissing the spear. “What did you think I wielded?”

“I just didn’t think about it. Names aren’t really that important.” Saran muttered, pushing past him to get open the box. They pulled open the flaps and picked up the first thing in there. It was a doll in an old victorian dress, with black eyes and porcelain skin. Normal creepy doll stuff, but this one was even better, her blank eyes were pitch black and small cracks spread out from them, and her slightly parted mouth revealed sharp needle teeth. Saran grinned delightedly, feeling the whisper of fear, fear, fear, against their skin. They turned the doll around and showed it off to Lancer. “What do you think?”

Lancer bent slightly, peering at it. “I think,” he said slowly, “that it is undeniably odd.” There was a strained quality to his voice, but Saran didn’t really care. Their question had been rhetorical, what he thought about the dolls didn’t matter. It had just sounded like something they were supposed to say.

“Well I think,” Saran turned the doll around again and stared at the dark blank eyes, “that it is perfect.” They set it down on the counter and pulled out another. And another. And another.

. . .

Diarmuid stepped back, watching Saran as they dug into the box with maniacal frenzy, occasionally unleashing a chuckle as they did so. They were in full mad scientist mode now. Diarmuid eyed the lab, where smoke was still filtering out through the ventilation system. They had abandoned their work in the middle of a potion. They never did that, not unless they passed out in the middle of the process. Which, somehow, they’d managed to do only one in the whole two months they had been here. Two months. It didn’t feel like two months, it felt like a lifetime. 

Finally, Saran pulled the last doll from the box, placing it beside the others. There were ten of them, each one blank faced and blank eyed with other oddities that made them stand out. Diarmuid felt his gut roil and resisted the urge to step back. This was ridiculous, he was a warrior of Fianna, and had faced worse enemies then dolls. He would not be unnerved, no matter how creepy the dolls may have been. Saran was back to digging in the box now, and Diarmuid watched them instead. Somehow, it felt safer than watching the dolls.

Something had changed in the weeks that had passed, something had tipped. Saran was not his friend, and might not ever be, but he understood them now, at least better then he had. In some ways, their single minded focus on their potions reminded him of his own focus on honor and loyalty. But he knew that this understanding, no matter how vague, was a one sided deal, Saran did not understand him, and he knew that they were not going to put an effort into understanding him either. Not when they had much more important things to do. 

“Perhaps,” he said while Saran pulled the last of their supplies out of the box, “You can do these things after you sleep. This is day five, we don’t want a repeat of the-”

“I’m fine,” they said, interrupting him before he could make a point they could not refute, “I’ve had a couple of twenty minute naps. Besides, I’m not going to do everything, just the first few steps.” They held up one bag to the light, tilting their head as they examined what was inside. Their hair was knotted and snagged, the edges frayed and burnt. Their face was practically grey with exhaustion, and their teal eyes shown above dark bags. He knew that look on their face, he’d seen it too often before. They were going to do what they set out to do or pass out first. It was almost admirable, if completely unhealthy and unsafe.

Diarmuid sighed, “I can’t stop you, but do try to be careful.” 

Saran just grinned at him.

He was starting to hate that grin.

. . .

The gemstones went into containers with the rest of her gems, each one labeled in Saran’s rushed handwriting. Kyanite, obsidian, and black onyx. It hadn’t been cheap, but then again, Saran wasn’t exactly poor. In fact, they were pretty sure that they could now be classified as rich. 

Having a benefactor really was a plus. 

After setting the new gems with the old, Saran cleaned up their mess, making sure that everything that would need washing was placed near the sink while everything else was placed in their respective spots. They scrubbed the table, making it as clean as possible before they got to work. It needed to be clean, any trace of their work could contaminate what they were doing. Finally, Saran took off their lab gear. Glasses, apron, and coat were put up, while their lab gloves were exchanged for a pair of normal thin gloves. The effect was odd, they hadn’t worn normal gloves in such a long time. They felt wrong without the familiar weight on their hands. For a second they rubbed the thin fabric, feeling it slide across their scar tissue, then they shook their head and turned their attention to what was to come.

Saran collected the four dolls that whispered fear, fear, fear the most. The haul had been better then they’d been expecting. They would have been happy if one had the mana they needed, but four was beyond their expectations. It really was true, anything could be found on the internet.

They set the dolls on the table, then collected some empty vials and stoppers. They labeled each one fear and placed them on the table. Then they grabbed a chair and dragged it over. They would need to be sitting for this, if they were standing, they would collapse. They had learned that the hard way. They sat down, breathing deeply. That was all that was needed, but still they hesitated. They hated this part. Absolutely loathed it.

Diarmuid looked at them, and then at the chair. “Are you sure about this?” He stood at the entrance to the lab, watching them with narrowed eyes. He normally didn’t come in without reason too, the lab was Saran’s territory, after all.

“Yes,” they said, not bothering to hide their annoyance. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I know you do,” he said calmly, “I was giving you the chance to change your mind.”

Saran debated glaring at him, but decided against it, instead laying a hand against the first doll. This time fear wasn’t a whisper, it was a burn, scalding their hand through the fabric of the glove and sending their scars aflame. They restrained a wince. Perhaps Lancer was right, perhaps they should sleep before getting this done. They were immediately mortified with the thought. They had done this plenty of times with little to no sleep, and no problems had occurred then. This time wouldn’t be any different. For some reason, exhaustion wasn’t a factor in this process. But Lancer's caution still wormed its way into their thoughts. How had he done it? How had he gotten into their mind? 

_ “Saran! What you’re doing isn’t safe! Can’t you see that? Are you so obsessed with this idea that you are willing to put everything at risk?” _

They gritted their teeth, and pushed the caution and the memories away. There was no place for things like that here. Here, there was just their idea and their work. They placed their other hand above the empty vial, meeting Lancer’s amber eyes. “I don’t need to change my mind.” They said quietly, then they closed their eyes and sucked in a deep breath.

Empty.

They breathed out slowly, releasing it in one long gust.

Vacant.

Breathe in.

Vessel.

Breathe out.

Vacío.

Breathe in.

Vacante.

Breathe out.

La vasija.

In.

Fear.

Out.

Fear.

IN.

El miedo.

OUT.

EL MIEDO.

IN.

OUT.

Nothing.

Saran slumped, catching themself on the table. Their limbs shook, their mind roiled, and they opened their eyes to stare at the table blankly. Their mouth tasted like cotton, and they could still feel it, the fear, coiled in their limbs and tangled in their mind. They reached out and grabbed the vial, now warm to the touch, and stoppered it. They could feel hands on their shoulders, shaking them. “Hey, are you okay?”

For a second they couldn’t place the voice. For a second it sounded like Uncle, warm with concern, but that wasn’t right. For a second, it sounded like her, but that wasn’t right either. Then the fog lifted from their mind and they were able to place it. Lancer. It was Lancer. They pushed themself up, and placed the vial back on the table. Something sloshed in it, something clear that whispered fear, fear, fear. It had worked. Of course it had worked. “I’m fine.” They said, voice cracking. They pushed the doll away, now nothing but an empty shell, and grabbed then the next. Their scars flared up in warning. They always did when they did this. Saran had learned to ignore the pain long ago. 

Lancer turned them around, eyes searching theirs, and for a second, they weren’t his eyes. Black instead of amber. Round instead slightly droopy. Then the moment was gone, and he was just Lancer. “You don’t look fine. You’re shaking, and you’re pale. You need rest, Saran.”

“Whether I’m rested or not doesn’t change a thing.” They said the words, but their mind drifted, far far away. They wrenched it back to the present, forcing it to focus. “It doesn’t change a thing,” they repeated, stronger this time. “The effects remain the same.” Pain and weakness and confusion and a chill that lingered days after the work was done. They’d tried it before while completely rested, and the effects were the same. The effects were always the same.

They expected him to argue, but he sighed instead, shoulders slumping. “Fine. Do what you need to do. But I’m staying here in case something happens.” Something rose in Saran’s throat. He didn’t believe them. He didn’t trust them. But he was willing to give them a chance. It was confusing, a tangled mess that didn’t make sense. Perhaps he read some of it in their eyes, because his face softened slightly. “I’m not going anywhere.” The words and tone were firm, but there was something off about his voice, and Saran could not place it. 

“Okay,” they said, voice a whisper, “Okay. I’ll need you to let go of me.” He stared at them, eyes still searching their face, then he let go of their shoulders. Saran nodded, then turned back to their work. They grabbed the next vial, and then placed their hand above it. They were cold, their scars on fire, their mind fogged, and it would only get worse from here. Saran closed their eyes and breathed in deeply.

Empty.

They breathed out.

Vacant.

Breathe in.

Vessel.

Breathe out.

Vacío.

Breathe in.

Vacante.

Breathe out.

La vasija.

In.

Fear.

Out.

Fear.

IN.

El miedo.

OUT.

EL MIEDO.

IN.

OUT.

Nothing.

Again.

And again.

. . .

Diarmuid caught them before they impacted the table. They were shaking like a leaf, fumbling around for the last stopper. “Let me,” he muttered, and after a second’s pause, they nodded. He reached out and stopperred the last vial. There were three total, the last two dolls only had enough mana for half a vial. Three vial, four dolls. How many potions, how many failed experiments would that make? He wasn’t sure it was worth the cost.

“Thanks,” Saran mumbled, eyelids fluttering as sleep dragged them under. “Didn’t have to . . .” They trailed off, slumping forwards as unconsciousness claimed them.

Diarmuid sighed, picking them up and carrying them out of the lab. They were cold, too cold. Saran was normally warm to the touch, but now they felt frozen, like ice. He shook his head, placing them on the couch and pulling the blankets over top of them. They mumbled something, too garbled to understand, then shifted deeper into the cushions. 

Diarmuid straightened, running a hand through his hair and staring out at the lab. Four dolls, each varying levels of creepy, stared at nothing with their blank eyes. Three vials, full of a clear, shimmering liquid, sat silently. He knew magecraft, but what Saran had just down didn’t make sense. There had been no incantation, no light or wind or the normal products of magecraft. Just Saran, the doll, and the vial. And then the liquid in the vial. And then Saran, cold and shaky and drained as if they had been using their own life force to change the mana from one state to another. 

The thought made him freeze, because it sounded like something Saran would do. But no, using their life force during this process would prevent them from continuing their work in the long run. And Diarmuid knew that was the one thing Saran would not risk.

A question popped up. Why had they wanted him to let go of them? It could have been that they didn’t want to be touched while they worked, but it could have been something different. Diarmuid had no illusions, he was a tool in a war, sworn to his lord. He may have been able to think and feel, but that didn’t change the fact that he was a magical creation, a familiar. Had Saran been afraid that they would end up drawing his own mana into the mana from the doll? It was possible, but that still begged the question how.

_ “My lord,”  _ he thought, hoping that his lord would still be up.  _ “If I may, I wish to ask a question.” _

_ “Go ahead, Lancer.” _

_ “What type of magic allows a mage to draw mana from one state to another?” _

_ “That is a very odd question, Lancer.”  _ He didn’t ask why Diarmuid was asking the question, the reason would have been obvious.  _ “Something like that would be Alchemy, and that tends to be a common school of magecraft. That however is not what you’re asking, is it?” _

_ “No, my lord, it is not.”  _ He closed his eyes, tried to put what he had seen into words.  _ “What allows a mage to draw mana from an object into another form, without the use of an incantation or action?” _

For a long time there was a pause. Finally, he answered.  _ “What you’re asking about is mana transference, without the use of Alchemy at all, aren’t you?” _

_ “Yes.” _

An even longer pause, and when he spoke, his voice was troubled.  _ “To do so without an incantation would mean using the proper way of breathing and walking. That is something that must be taught, but some are born with the ability. The rest however, I am unsure of. It sounds akin to something that approaches true magic, but that is not possible, not in this day and age. I will have to do some research on this subject.” _

_ “Understood, my lord.”  _

_ “Tell me if anything else odd occurs.” _

_ “Of course, my lord.”  _ Diarmuid turned back to look at Saran, who lay curled up in their blankets, fast asleep, completely unaware of the conversation that had just taken place. He had a sinking feeling in his gut, one that told him whatever answers his lord found would raise more questions than they answered. “Well then,” he said into the silent room, “You don’t make this easy, do you?”


	12. Adrift on a Sea of Emptiness

Saran slept for two and a half days, and the last half of the third was spent in something that amounted to a semiconscious doze. In those days, Diarmuid made sure to keep watch on how the alchemist was doing, absolutely positive that Saran had overdone it and worried that if he turned around for one second they wouldn’t be breathing. It was silly of him, he knew this, but that didn’t stop the fear. So he kept himself busy, he put the vials up, and packed the dolls back up, trained and read and played solitaire. It was on the fourth day when Saran’s eyes finally opened up fully that Diarmuid’s strained patience almost snapped. He may not have been an expert in magecraft or alchemy, but he was certain there was a better way to do what they had done. There had to be.

He was about to tell them exactly that when Saran stopped him, or more accurately, the look in their eyes stopped him. They were blank, drained, empty. He had never seen their eyes devoid of a glint, whether born of excitement or delight or anger, they always expressed something. But now . . . now they were dead. For a long minute they stared at him blankly before they managed a whispered “Hi.”

Diarmuid sucked in a deep breath and then blew it out. “Is there anything you need?”

“Water,” they croaked, pushing their body up on shaking limbs.

Diarmuid went to make them a glass of water, and when he came back he sat down beside them, passing the cup to them. They leaned back into the sofa, pulling their knees up and sipping the water. “Are you hungry?” Diarmuid asked softly.

“No. Just . . . drained.”

They hadn’t eaten in three days. Diarmuid sighed, searching for what he wanted to say without being insulting. “That was very-”

“Stupid? Idiotic? Reckless?” Their voice was very dry.

Diarmuid gave up and rolled his eyes. “All of those things. Is there not another way to do that?”

Saran shrugged, a sharp, short movement. “Not that I know off,” they said, or, well muttered. “I’ve looked around from time to time, but the method of creation is so exact I’m not sure it would work any other way. I would have to start at step one for every potion I have to make sure things keep on running smoothly. It’s better to do it this way.” They sipped the water again and fell silent.

This was not better. This was insanity, but he knew they wouldn’t listen to him. But getting them to listen to him wasn’t his job. His job was to keep them alive. “Well then,” he said, “I’m going to make you some food.” 

“I said I wasn’t hungry.” They said it with a faint scowl, and Diarmuid could have cheered to see something on their face that wasn’t weariness.

Diarmuid stood and met their eyes. “I know you did. But you haven’t eaten or drunk anything in three days. You’re dehydrated, and starving. So, I’m going to make some food, and you are going to eat it. I trust you aren’t going into the lab today?” He raised an eyebrow.

Saran sighed, “Not right now, no.” Not for a while if he had any say in it.

“Good.” He smiled then, quick and easy. “Take the time to relax.” Then he turned and headed towards the kitchen portion of the room.

. . .

Saran watched Lancer go, feeling annoyance prick at their insides. The feeling didn’t stick, nothing did after the first few days of waking up. They’d be out of it for the rest of the week. They sighed, taking another drink from their cup. The liquid cut through the dryness of their throat and cleared some of the fogginess in their mind. Their thoughts felt slower, more sluggish, but they always did after the procedure. There was a price for everything, and the price for getting what they needed for their potions was being laid up for a week.

And they hated it.

Saran didn’t do well when they couldn’t be in the lab. It was like being driven insane, slowly. Books were okay, for a time. Tv was okay, but somehow it felt wrong to watch stuff without other people to complain too. There was only so long anyone could last doing solitaire before committing murder. And thinking of things to occupy time was hard to do when thoughts had the consistency of pea soup.

Saran realized they had drifted off again, eyes locked on a blank spot on the wall, glass of water cold in their hands. “Fucking shit,” they mumbled, taking a sip of water. They needed to get their head in the game. There was a freaking Holy Grail War in ten months that they were going to be stuck dealing with, even if they would only be a sideline character. Besides, they had a great new set of ideas, and the supplies to figure those ideas out! The quicker they got into the right headspace the better.

But even that conviction drained away, to be replaced by a tired numbness. It was the lingering effects of the incantation, though it wasn’t really an incantation, more of a mindset. They pulled the mana out from the object, through their body, and back into the container. To do that without contaminating it, they had to be empty. Kind of like the cup in their hands, in that moment they were nothing but a vessel for the mana. And the effects of that mental state lingered, partly because it was so easy not to care. To let worries and fears and thoughts trickle away, and it was always hard to push that numbness away because they were numb. Because they were empty.

Saran blinked, and the motion startled them back into reality. They took another sip of their water, once again momentarily angry. How long had they been drifting? Normally it didn’t take them long to process what they were thinking, but like this . . . it always took longer. They inhaled, then froze, sniffing the air. “What are you making?” The words were out before the thought to stop them surfaced. Good old curiosity, it was always one of the first things to come back.

Lancer glanced at them, tossing a smirk over his shoulder. “I thought you weren’t hungry.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.” They brought the cup to their lips, only to realize that it was empty. They must have finished it already. How strange, they didn’t remember finishing it. Stupid half dead foggy brained state.

“Why?” Lancer asked, “Does it smell good?”

“. . . yes . . .”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry, it will be done soon.”

Saran set their chin on their knees and closed their eyes, thoughts drifting in and out, memories too. Flickering on and off like lights. A sing-song voice, laughter, another voice, deeper, tired, choked with suppressed grief and  _ “Your math is wrong.”  _ Saran’s eyes shot open, and for a second their heart sped up, but whatever emotion that caused it was quickly gone. The scowled, annoyed at their detour into things better left forgotten. 

Footsteps, a plate pushed towards them. “Here you go,” the cup plucked from their fingers. “I’ll fill this for you.”

For a second Saran stared at the plate and the fork. Then they shifted so they could eat, and picked up the fork. “Thank you,” they mumbled, and then mechanically started to shove food into their mouth.

. . .

“You must hate this.” 

Diarmuid stopped his game of Solitaire and looked at Saran. They’d woken up again, and had pushed themselves up to watch them. Three days later after their initial waking, and they were stronger, and the glint had finally come back in their eye. Diarmuid was pretty sure they would be up soon. Whatever damage their magecraft did, it didn’t seem to be permanent. That didn’t mean he had to like it though.

What made it worse was the fact that his lord had yet to get back to him on the magecraft Saran was using.

“I’m sorry? Hate what?”

They tilted their head, their matted hair casting shadows on their face. Their teal eyes glinted from behind dark circles. They still looked like a zombie, but at least they looked more normal then they had before.“You were summoned to fight in a war, to fight for a wish. And now you’re stuck babysitting me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And you think I hate it.”

They shrugged, “I would.”

“I’m not you.”

“You’re right, you’re not.” They frowned, thinking, and then they laid back onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.

Diarmuid moved a card up and flipped another one. Would he have preferred to be fighting? In all honesty, yes. He was a warrior, being a bodyguard to a scientist whose biggest danger was themself was not something he had ever thought he would do. But guarding Saran helped further his own goal of winning the Holy Grail for his lord. In the beginning, he had . . . been glad of guarding someone, to be given a job worthy of a knight. Was he disappointed that his battlefield was going to take place a long time into the future? Yes. But did he hate it? No. “I don’t hate it,” he told them, “why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” Their voice was a whisper.

He frowned and looked at them. Their eyes were fixed on the ceiling, staring at something far away. Drifting. They had done that a lot in the past few days. “You thought I hated it?”

“I think,” Saran said tiredly, “That you are a better person than me if you don’t hate it.” They chuckled softly, “Then again, it’s not hard to be a better person than me.”

Diarmuid turned back to his cards. “Do you really think that? I mean, you’re hardly a bad person. Just rough around the edges.”

“Mhm.”

“I’ve met worse.”

“I’m sure you have.”

They fell into silence again until, “Lancer?”

“Yes?”

“Why do you want the Holy Grail?”

He frowned. Why all these questions now? “I don’t have a wish for it myself. My only desire is to bring glory to my lord on the battlefield and give it to him.”

“Any wish and that’s what you choose.” They sounded disbelieving.

“What would you choose?” He asked, a bit too sharply. He sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. Perhaps Saran was rubbing off on him, he hadn’t meant to snap.

“I wouldn’t take it. Omnipotent wish granters sound like they come with strings attached. I prefer my miracles home-brewed. Also not an overly big fan of dying.”

Diarmuid laughed before he could stop himself. “As we are on this path of questions, who would you summon if you were a master? Theoretically, of course.” 

“Who would I summon? Anyone at all?”

“Anyone.”

They fell silent, thinking. Then finally they said, “Bartimeaus. He may be a coward, but that means he would live, and since if I died he would die, that means he would make sure I would live too.”

“Isn’t that a book character?”

“You said I could choose anyone.”

“True, I did.” He turned back to his game.

“Who would you choose?”

Diarmuid’s answer was almost immediate. “Cu Chulainn, Ireland’s Child of Light. He was my childhood hero.”

“Hmm,” Saran said, “I guess that works too.”

Diarmuid burst out laughing again.

. . .

Saran pulled their lab coat on, one sleeve after another, delighted eagerness swirling in their stomach. Finally, it was time. The previous week had felt like it had lasted forever, but now the wait was over. They did up the buttons on the lab coat, then switched their gloves for their work gloves. The weight on their hands felt right, the pull on their scars correct. After a week of drifting, after a week of nothingness, reality was spilling back in and it felt glorious. Yesterday had been spent calculating the hopeful formula for the fear gas, though formula was hardly how Saran would describe it. It was like having an equation where every number was replaced with a variable. A puzzle with missing pieces and no guiding picture. And Saran was ecstatic to be at it again. 

They pushed their damp hair out of their face, slid their safety glasses back on and grinned.


	13. One Piece at a Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I would just like to say thank you for all the comments and kudos! You guys are amazing, and I hope you have a wonderful day!

The first thing Saran Secada needed was rather simple, a dry erase marker and an eraser. Or a washcloth, a washcloth would work. These things were, of course, for their equation. Technically, they could do all their equations in their notebook, but they also had a handy dandy bulletproof divider that they could use. So they did. They grinned eagerly as the basic formula took form on the clear acrylic, although the finished product would be vastly different from what they were currently writing. The basic formula was a starting point after all, which reminded them, “Hey Lancer, don’t pull me out of the lab if something explodes. At least not for the next few days. Otherwise, I’ll spend more time running between the two instead of getting this done.” It may have sounded like a hyperbole, but it really wasn’t.

“As long as you tell me when it is fine to do so,” his reply was calm, and Saran shot him a curious look. On the other side of the divider, he was watching them, his amber eyes cautious. “I assume the first few steps aren’t overly dangerous?” His voice was carefully controlled, and Saran wasn’t going to waste precious time to figure out what was bothering him

Saran flapped a hand, “No, not at all. Any explosion will basically be a glitter bomb.” They started drawing the lines for the table of their first step: discovering how much of the weakening potion needed to be used on each type of stone. That would take up at least the remainder of the day. They paused, glanced at Lancer again. “I’ll tell you when I get to the dangerous parts. But for now, don’t bother me.”

He nodded, his stray strand of dark hair shifting gently with the movement. “I understand.”

But Saran was no longer listening. They finished their table, and moved over to where their supplies sat. For a second they considered, then shook their head. Less than a day, really. Which meant that they would be able to start on the next part in a few hours. Their grin stretched wider as they spilled the first stone in the mortar, their other hand already reaching for the weakening potion. Glee was bubbling up in their stomach now, a churning mixture of excitement and anticipation that would have made their hands shake if they hadn’t done this a thousand times before.

Oh yes, they had missed this.

. . .

Diarmuid leaned on the counter, playing a round of solitaire and listening as Saran hummed and hit stones with their pestle. Most of the time, the hit sounded just like that, a hit, but occasionally there would be the sound of a crack, and Diarmuid knew then that they had succeeded in one part of their experiment. Still, he kept an eye on them, wary for their smoke bombs or something vastly more dangerous. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them, it was that he trusted the fact that Saran seemed to have the ability to make everything more complicated then it necessarily had to be.

Saran seemed oblivious to his worry though, their grin wide, their eyes glinting. In fact, Diarmuid was certain that they had already forgotten about his existence. He was glad though. The after effects of their magecraft had completely disappeared, leaving nothing but an eager mad scientist ready to invent something new. It was a relief to see Saran’s true personality shine bright after their magecraft had smothered it so effectively.

 _“Lancer.”_ The voice interrupted his thoughts and he stood straighter.

_“Yes, my lord?”_

_“I have both answers and more curiosities for you.”_ Diarmuid hid a relieved smile. Finally the wait was over, he would have the answers he wished for. His master continued, voice sharp and serious. _“My answer is this. I do not know what type of magecraft Saran Secada used.”_ This time, Diarmuid could not repress a slight frown. How was that an answer? Actually, it was just his luck. He should have expected this. _“I did some research into the records of the Clock Tower, and no one by the name of Saran Secada has ever been recorded attending the school or even visiting. In fact, Secada is not a mage family at all. Therefore, Saran Secada is a first generation mage, which explains their little to no mana output, but does not explain how they are able to do something so complex.”_

_“Which means everything they know is self taught?”_

_“Yes.”_

Diarmuid was left staring in shock at the alchemist on the other side of the barrier, who was now pouring sparkling dust into a vial. Their grin was still on their face, their teal eyes glinted with delight behind their safety glasses, and in that moment, it made sense. What they had done took such a large toll because it was still in its developmental stages. They weren’t sure how to change that because they had never had actual lessons. His master couldn’t name the type of magecraft they used because they had made it up themselves. 

What had it been like? To start everything from scratch, to pick up the pieces of a puzzle they couldn’t name. To manage to craft something from nothing. No wonder they took such pride in their work. No wonder their magecraft was so unrefined and . . . raw, a danger to themself even if it got the job done.

 _“My lord, would it be possible for you to take them on as a student?”_ Diarmuid froze. He hadn’t meant to say that. _“Ah, my apologies. It is not my place to presume.”_

The sound of a chuckle drifted through his mind. _“If I did, would it help? They would first have to unlearn everything they think they know. And would they even accept my tutelage? It’s highly unlikely, because accepting me as a tutor would mean giving up their own secrets, something they are unwilling to do. Besides, they hardly have the disposition to be a proper mage.”_ Once again his master chuckled. _“I might entertain the idea after this holy grail war, however.”_

_“Understood, my lord. I will not bother you again with such trivial questions.”_

_“Now, now, Lancer, it was hardly trivial. I hope my answers have satisfied you.”_

_“They have, my lord. And thank you for taking time out of your day to do this for me.”_

_“Good.”_ His master’s presence faded from his mind, and Diarmuid was left staring at Saran as they scribbled something down in their notebook.

His master was right, Saran didn’t have the disposition to be a proper mage. They were too honest, too absorbed in their own thing to understand the intricate dances most mages followed, and they were too focused on the present while most mages remained focused on the future. However, that was hardly a bad thing, and in that moment, Diarmuid was in awe of them and what they had managed to accomplish on their own. 

Saran turned, grabbing the eraser off the table and heading towards the divider. They caught his gaze, froze, a frown replacing their eager grin. “Uh . . . is there something wrong?” They shot a look over their shoulder and stared at the equipment on the table as if it was about to go off with no warning.

Diarmuid blinked, then shook his head slightly. “My apologies, I was simply lost in thought.” For a second, a seed of guilt sprouted in his chest. His words were true, but . . . he had pried into their past without permission. He’d done it out of worry, but still . . . it was not an honorable thing to do.

Saran turned back to him and snorted slightly. “Yeah, that happens,” their attention shifted back to their work and their grin spread across their face once more as the real world was replaced by something vastly more experimental.

Diarmuid, now torn between awe for what Saran had accomplished and guilt for his prying, closed his eyes and resolved to apologize when he had the chance. He had to tell them, of course, it dealt with their past, with their methods. He had too.

Even if he feared what they would have to say.

. . .

Obsidian was easy, they already knew how much was needed for that. They went ahead and crushed it, storing it for later. It was possible to do that with the stones before the more exotic ingredients were added. It was when those exotic ingredients were added that things got tricky. They continued on from obsidian to the next gem. Kyanite was like obsidian, at max a 5 on the Mohs hardness scale. Like obsidian, just a touch of weakness potion was needed as long as their intent remained strong. Black onyx was harder, a 7 on the Mohs hardness scale, 2 drops were needed. The same was required for the clear quartz. Any more than the minimum amount would make the stones easier to crush, but would also affect the strength of the potion.

They wrote their findings in their notebook, noted the time it took to crush the stones completely, and erased the table on the divider. Spoke to Lancer, wrote down the new table. Four rows for the four stones. Ten rows with room for more to find out how many drops of fear would be acceptable. Space to write the time before the explosion. There was always an explosion, but right now it would be a glitter bomb. They would need a mask, not a gas mask, not yet, although in the future they would . . . no. Focus on the now, not what was to come. Otherwise, things could go wrong. They fetched a cloth mask and tied it over their nose and mouth. The glitter bomb explosions weren’t really dangerous, but sometimes they didn’t crush the stones properly. Small shards of gems hurt when ingested or breathed in. It was better to be cautious.

Back to the table, open the vial of obsidian, pour it into the mortar. Open the vial of fear, listen as it whispered against their skin. Stick in a pipet, suck some up, stopper it again. Step back, hold pipet at arms length, focus, let one drop fall into the container. Ten seconds later, an explosion occurred. Note down the time on the table, pull out the next stone, crush it, repeat the process with the next number of drops. Over and over.

Oddly enough, Saran had never found out why, the time before the explosions almost always fell into a normal distribution curve. It started at a small number, climbed by increments to a high point, then fell roughly the same way it climbed. For obsidian plus fear, six drops gave the greatest amount of time for leeway, which was thirteen minutes. That time could probably be extended by changing the temperature, but that would be tested later. What was important was that the necessary amount for the potion would be between five and seven drops. 

Sometimes, the number of drops that gave the longest time of leeway was not the correct number. It was best to test the two numbers next to it as well.

They continued on, slowly, methodically. They couldn’t rush the process, it was too exact. Not perfect, nothing was perfect, but there was a small margin of error. If they failed here, and continued on wards, nothing else would work, and the guaranteed explosion could be catastrophic. They needed these numbers before they could continue.

Kyanite took less, the sweet spot would be found between three and five drops, and the highest time was at fifteen minutes for four drops. Black Onyx was trickier, possibly because it was closest to the type of mana they were using. One drop lasted one hour, but the explosion was slightly more violent. Anything more than one drop erupted almost immediately. As for clear quartz, it was furthest from the mana being used, and took all of their intent and will. The sweet spot was between nine and eleven drops, with the highest time being five minutes at ten drops.

They recorded their findings in their notebook, and then erased the table from the divider. There was a knock on the door, but Saran ignored it. They started their next table, temperature needed to extend the duration of the concoction to a reasonable time. They missed Lancer’s eye roll and small sigh, before he shifted to spirit form and ghosted through the divider. They did not miss the hand on their shoulder and the amused voice going. “No, Saran. You’ve been at this for hours now. It’s time for lunch.” Still, the voice wasn’t completely amused, there was a trace of something else in it. Worry, maybe.

Behind their mask, Saran scowled, and their eyes glinted with annoyance. “Not now Lancer. I’m busy.”

“And how long will the next part take?” Saran didn’t answer. “I thought so, It’s better to eat now while you're between things.” They still didn’t answer, and Lancer sighed heavily. “I didn’t want to do this,” he said amiably, grabbing their shoulders and steering them out of the lab, “But here I am, forcing your hand.”

Saran reluctantly let him. He was, after all, too strong to fight.

. . .

Diarmuid had thought he was beyond forcing them to eat, but apparently he’d been wrong. However, they did inhale the food quickly, so that was a plus. “How long are you planning on working?” He was pretty sure he knew the answer, but he still had hope he was wrong. Unfortunately, he wasn’t that lucky.

“As long as coffee can keep me awake.” Their voice was very dry, and they shot him an amused glance.

Diarmuid sighed, “I figured as much” He hesitated slightly, then soldiered on. “I have something I need to apologize for.”

“Is it for pulling me out of the lab?”

Despite the slight knot of guilt in his stomach, Dairmuid chuckled. “No, it’s not that.” He sighed again, then met Saran’s eyes. They were curious, nothing more. Of course, that would probably change. “I am afraid that I have invaded your privacy,” he said, “Your act a week ago and the subsequent consequences scared me, so I asked my lord to look into it.” Excuses, that was all that was. “The point is I broke your trust, and I apologize.” He bowed his head slightly, “I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me”

Saran frowned slightly, and for a second he feared the worst, then they spoke. “I don’t see why you’re apologizing. What you did made sense, and you had a better reason than mere curiosity. Besides, I would be surprised if your Master hadn’t already run a background check on me. So, . . . I forgive you? I don’t really see why you’d be sorry . . . but still.”

The guilt that had been building up ever since his brief talk with his lord changed to surprise. “You’re not angry?” He stared at them, blankly. He’d expected anger, he’d expected the tentative steps he had taken to be wiped away in their renewed distrust and dislike. He hadn’t expected the honest confusion written in the furrow of their brow and the tilt of their chin.

“No,” they shrugged, “I don’t really care either way. You need to stop apologizing for stupid things.”

He scowled slightly. “That reason was not stupid.”

“Eh,” they stood from their seat on the couch, picking up their empty plate as they did so. “You were worried, so you had a good reason. Therefore, your apology is stupid.”

Diarmuid sucked in a deep breath, battering down the annoyance that threatened to flare up. “My reason was an excuse. What matters is what happened, not the reasoning behind it.” Wasn’t that always how it was with his life? All the way back to Fionn . . . the reasons didn’t matter. What mattered was what occurred. It had always been that way.

“No.” Saran countered, “circumstances matter. Intent matters. Trust me, I know a lot about intent. Now, I’m going to put the plate up, and then I’m going to get back to my experiment.” They started towards the divider, plate in hand. They froze, then turned to face him, a slight frown on their face. And for a second, Diarmuid thought they were going to say something else about his views on reasons, but what came out of their mouth was completely different. “I know we have Bunsen burners, but are there any freezers in the lab? I really don’t want to stick reactive concoctions into the fridge.”

For a long second, Diarmuid stared at them, then, as if a dam had broken somewhere inside, he burst into loud, honest laughter. 

Saran gazed at him for a few moments, then shrugged, retreating into the lab with their empty plate, confusion still written across every line of their face. At least, until they started their search for a freezer that was not used to store food.


	14. Please, For the Love of God, Follow Lab Safety Regulations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people! I would like to say thank you for all the comments and kudos, they really mean a lot to me! Here's to the next chapter and I hope you have a wonderful day!

A month passed, the time seemingly measured in explosions. Diarmuid didn’t know how Saran could stay so cheerful, they had spent the whole month on their fear gas, and had made little to no progress, as far as he could tell at least. Yet Saran did not seem to care, there was a grin on their face more often than not, and they burst into delighted laughter at random times. They had never laughed so much before this, at least not in his presence. Food and sleep were ignored in favor of the lab and the chaotic process they repeated over and over. They were almost as bad as when Diarmuid had first met them, except they were vastly more cheerful. 

He could see now why they spent so much time in the lab. Why they fought sleep tooth and nail to stay there.

They truly loved it, both the process and the results. 

Which was why he hated to interrupt them. 

“Saran,” he said when he managed to drag them out of the lab to eat. 

“Hm?” The sound was made between shoveled mouthfuls of food.

Diarmuid sighed. “Fist off, slow down. You’re going to choke at that rate. Secondly,” he hesitated, then continued on, “My lord has expressed some . . . discontent with your progress with the mana boost potions.”

Saran blinked, their fork halfway between their mouth and the plate. “Discontent? I’ve got, what, nine months now? He’s going to have plenty of mana and mana boost potions. In fact, he’s probably going to have too many. Can’t imagine what he’s going to use them all for.”

Diarmuid ignored this valid point. “He said, and I quote, ‘I am not paying them for the fear gas. I am paying them for the mana and mana boosts. I agreed to their little side project as long as they could stay on task. They have not. Get them back on task, Lancer’.” He shrugged slightly, “I mean no offense, but you have gotten a little obsessive with the fear gas.” Obsessive was an understatement, but he wasn’t sure if there was another way to say it.

Saran pointed their fork at him. “Being obsessed is what gets results.” Then they stuck their forkful of food in their mouth, chewed, then swallowed. “But I am willing to admit that I’m not being paid for the fear gas. Not yet, anyway.” They sighed, heavily, reluctantly, as if the words they were about to speak were horrifying. “Fine, I’ll start the other potions back up again. But I will still be working on the fear gas. Hell, I’ll even start today. I’m feeling generous.”

“I’ll tell him then, but you won’t be starting until after you have slept.” Diarmuid crossed his arms, ready for the argument that was sure to head his way.”

“I’m not tired.” Saran said. It was almost funny how blatant the truth was. They looked like a corpse that had been reanimated one too many times.

Diarmuid raised an eyebrow. “Really? You haven’t slept in six days and you’re not tired.”

Saran shrugged. “Not really.”

Diarmuid’s eyes narrowed. Of course that was what they would say. It was time to bring out his trump card. “I find that highly unlikely. I’m confiscating your coffee.”

“WHAT?!”

“As the person who is supposed to keep you alive, I can’t have you drinking too much coffee. That stuff can kill you if you drink too much.” He tried to keep the smugness out of his voice, he really really did, but he was pretty sure he failed. 

“Oh yeah? How much.” Their teal eyes had narrowed, and Diarmuid knew that they were trying to find a hole in his argument. It didn’t matter if they did, he was going to make sure they slept, one way or another.

“Depending on the person, fifty to one hundred in a day.”

“But I haven’t drunk fifty to one hundred in a day.” Another valid point, they were full of them today.

“That’s the average person, Saran.” Diarmuid said, “Not a person who has been awake for six days, and expends energy at the rate you do. The amount of coffee you can drink before perishing is unknown, therefore, I’m playing it safe.” Saran gaped at him, and Diarmuid smirked as he hammered in the final nail on the coffin. “Even you will have to admit that is one experiment that should not be undergone.”

For a few seconds they gaped at him before throwing up their hands in defeat. “Fine, fine, you win. I will finish this food, and then I will sleep and then I will work on mana and mana boost potions. Are you happy now?”

“Yes, I am.”

. . .

Saran slept for two days, and when they woke up, their mouth was cotton and their head hurt and they still felt like sleeping. So they just lay there on the couch, glaring at the opposite wall as if it had attempted to destroy the world.

“Feeling better?” Lancer asked, and Saran could smell breakfast as he cooked it. How was he always cooking breakfast when they woke up? It was like a sixth sense. 

“I hate you,” They mumbled to the wall before getting up and shambling towards the bathroom. Lancer’s amused laugh followed them.

A few moments later, they were sitting at the couch again, scarfing food down as if they hadn’t eaten in days. Which was true enough. “Are you always like this?” Lancer asked, and Saran could feel his eyes appraising him.

“Like what?” Saran mumbled. They still didn’t want to talk to him. That was a dirty trick he had played with the coffee. They knew that, theoretically, it was a good thing he had threatened their coffee, trying the mana boost potion in their previous state might have been disastrous. But still, it was their coffee.

“Actually, never mind.” Lancer said, his voice soft, “You got obsessive about the healing potion too, but that didn’t last as long as this one.” Oh yeah, the healing potion, they should get back to that. After the fear gas, and undetectability potion, and the intimidation potion. “Any progress yet?”

Saran’s remaining fatigue vanished as if it had never been. “Yes,” they said, “I’m getting close. I can feel it. I almost had it yesterday, I just have to adjust a few more variables and try out a few more variations. I’ve got maybe,” they hesitated, “two weeks to another month on this thing.”

“Working on it constantly or with the mana and mana boost potions thrown in?” Lancer’s voice was wry.

Saran deflated. “Okay, maybe two months left.”

“Well, it’s good to know you’re making progress. It just doesn’t look like it from where I’m standing.” Lancer’s voice was noncommittal, and for the briefest second, Saran wondered if he was annoyed with the fact he couldn’t tell. But then they discarded the idea, it didn’t sound like Lancer.

Saran stared at him, curious as to what he was thinking. “What do you mean? Even failures are progress. Failures mean you can move on to other things.”

Lancer held up his hands, “Yes, yes. I wasn’t trying to start an argument.” He seemed slightly amused now, the blankness in his voice gone as if it had never been. Perhaps it hadn’t. Perhaps they were imagining things.

Saran just sent him a look and continued inhaling their food.

. . .

The mana potion went off without a hitch. The mana boost exploded. Multiple times. The fourth attempt at the mana boost succeeded, and Saran collapsed for a twenty minute nap, which somehow turned into a day long sleep as Lancer supposedly forgot to wake them. He did it on purpose, they were almost positive of that, but still, they weren’t going to call him on it. They had more important things to do.

They shut the lab door behind them as they entered, whistling cheerfully. 

The formula of the fear gas awaited discovery.

And then time blurred. It was odd, having everything being rushed, yet every movement still crystal clear. The next formula they were trying out was written on the bulletproof divider, but Saran barely needed it. The first few steps were already etched into their memory, though that wouldn’t last long. As soon as they turned to other things for long periods of time, they would need the formula again. 

Their hands moved, and in their mind they counted. Little adjustments were made as the process in front of them fought back. It didn’t want to happen. It shouldn’t have happened. But Saran wouldn’t let it fail again, no, not this time, and not in the early stages. If it was going to blow, it would blow after Saran discovered the next step. So, step by step, second by second, they prevented the little disasters before they happened, headed them off before they could bloom.

Time passed, an hour, two? Time was an illusion, it didn’t matter unless it was counting the moments between reactions. Occasionally they would look back at Lancer and grin, just to send him the message that everything was going wonderfully. More often than not, Lancer would meet their eyes, his worry plain on his face. They didn’t know why he was worried, couldn’t understand it.

Everything was going smoothly, after all.

And even if it didn’t, that was why it was an experiment.

. . . 

They had shut the door. They’d been doing that more often now, and Diarmuid hated it. The door being shut made it harder to get them out in case something erupted. For a second, Saran glanced back at him, grinning widely, then they were back to their potion, completely focused. As they should be, he didn’t want to be a distraction. He looked down at his cards, chewing the inside of his cheek.

He was on high alert and he didn’t know why. He felt like something was going to happen, his insides twisted up in too many knots. Perhaps it was his instincts, even though this wasn’t a battlefield. His instincts were screaming that something would happen, that he needed to be on guard, that he needed to watch and wait and act when needed. Perhaps it was because he was so used to Saran’s way of doing things now, he could sense when something was about to go wrong. Perhaps he was just overreacting, but it was better to be safe than sorry. So he watched Saran, and waited, and hoped that he wouldn’t have to act.

Time passed, fist seconds, then minutes, and then finally another hour.They had been at this for four hours now, the longest time spent on this potion yet. Diarmuid stepped away from the counter and started pacing. So far, the explosions had been relatively small, with only a few violent ones thrown in. But with his luck, he doubted that it would last. He stopped pacing and watched them again, was it his imagination or were they slowing down? Pausing more often with their brows furrowed, their grin still present but diminished. No it wasn’t his imagination, they had slowed down, their concentration worn plain on their face. They had reached turbulent waters, it was obvious.

Diarmuid got ready.

His worry rose with each move Saran made. If this was a battle, he might not have been so worried. In a battle, he could do something. There was an enemy to fight, something he could defend against, actions he could take. But this, what was going on, was all reactions. Waiting and reacting, he wasn’t on top of things, and it seemed so obvious now with this feeling of doom weighing heavy on his chest.

Something made a popping sound, less of a pop really and more like a crack. Diarmuid was halfway into spirit form before Saran shouted, “Lancer, NO! You can’t take me out of here.” He froze, watching them move over to the closet and bring out the gas mask, fixing over their tangled hair. Their movements were calm, controlled, not the jerky ones Diarmuid would expect from them had something gone wrong. Was this planned?

“Why not?” He couldn’t see what had - no - wait, one of the glass tubes had cracked open, and there was a heat wave radiating from it. Gas. His fingers itched for his spears, but what could he do? He couldn’t fight gas.

Saran’s voice was muffled. “The lab uses a different ventilation system then the house. If you open that door, then this,” they waved at the broken tube and the gas that was coming out of it, “Will get caught up by the house’s ventilation system.”

Diarmuid’s hands clenched. Suddenly the situation felt surreal, like something in a dream, but the worry in his chest refused to depart. He couldn’t get them out of there, but at least they had the gas mask. If they kept that on, everything should be fine. “And that is something we cannot allow to happen. Will the rest of the concoction explode?” 

Saran shrugged, “No clue.” They moved over to the table, “I don’t think it will. It certainly doesn’t feel like it. We’re in the eye of the storm now. Can you set the stopwatch on the tablet? I need to know how long this calm will last.”

He felt useless. He was useless in this situation, but that was something he could do. “Of course.”

“Thanks,” a thrill of pride shot through him at the word. They were remembering to say it more often now, and it made him glad to know that some of their roughness was being rubbed smooth, at least towards him. He turned away from them, grabbing the tablet, “UGH! I am such an idiot!”

He spun, a spike of fear shooting through him at their words. “What?”   
Saran looked at him, their eyes glinting brightly, and he was positive their grin was back. “Do you trust me?” 

Yes, he trusted them. He trusted them to do something absolutely stupid that no sane person would think of. “Saran . . .”

“Do you trust me?”

No, no, no, no, no, no. What were they going to do? He sucked in a deep breath, then sighed heavily. “I trust you, but whatever you’re planning, do no-”

It didn’t matter, as soon as he said, “I trust you,” Saran ripped off their gas mask.

. . . 

The air tasted wrong, but then again, they had pretty much expected that. They closed their eyes and took a deeper breath, searching, listening for the whisper of fear against their skin. Nothing. Nothing. Then . . . something, a panicked voice and hands dragging the gas mask over their face. Saran’s eyes blinked open to stare into Lancer’s amber ones. “What were you thinking?” He said, his voice slightly hysterical.

Saran just blinked at him again, uncomprehending.

He took a step back, taking in a deep breath and regaining his composure. “What,” he said again, slower this time, almost like a growl. “Were you thinking?”

Saran rolled their eyes and pointed to where the process was still spewing gas. “I’m trying to create a fear gas. That is a gas. How else was I supposed to know if this was it? Besides, you’re breathing it too.”

Lancer’s newly regained composure cracked, and he scowled down at them. “I’m a servant, and a Lancer class, which means I have magic resistance. You do not. What if it was poisonous? What if it was the fear gas and you got caught in it?”

Part of Saran was hurt. It sounded like he didn’t trust them, didn’t understand that they had their reasons for doing what they did. They had weighed the risks. They weren’t stupid. But no, they just had to remember that not everyone thought like they did. “It,” they said, their voice tight, “wouldn’t have affected me. My things work with intent, if my intent isn’t strong enough, it doesn’t work.” Lancer just stared at them, uncomprehending. “That means that if this was the potion, then I would only get the barest of effects, not the full brunt.”

“And if the gas was hazardous?” His voice was stiff.

Saran looked away from him and stared at the table. “It’s just mana and some stones, nothing hazardous. Not really.”

“Oh,” and his voice was very small, “I see. I’m sorry for overreacting.”

“No,” they said, still watching the table, “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t expect you to understand what I’m thinking.” No one did, not even . . . not even . . . they closed their eyes and sighed. To think that today had started off so well.

“Then,” his hand landed on their shoulder softly, “I am not sorry for reacting the way I did, but I am sorry that I didn’t trust that you knew what you were doing.” He sighed, “In the future, please tell me why you are going to do something before you do it. At least for things like this.”

“Yeah, I can.” They said, their words soft and quiet.

He patted their shoulder gently, then stepped back, Saran watched him move to the door to sit against it. “How long must you stay in here?” His eyes were veiled, his head resting against the bulletproof glass.

After a second, Saran moved over to sit beside him. “Until the reaction stops, perhaps a little bit after that.” The gas mask felt heavy and uncomfortable, they wanted to take it off. Their scars itched too. “Or until something explodes.”

“Ah,” he hesitated, then said, “You know, you could have just made a potion then boiled it. Would that have worked?”

Saran blinked, then started to chuckle, “Maybe. But it would still be a liquid at room temperature, I need something that will be a gas at room temperature.”

“Never mind, then.”

“No, it was a good idea.” Saran tugged the edge of their glove. “Do you ever get tired?” They weren’t sure why they asked it, but it might have been his posture. When they looked out of the corner of their eye, he seemed exhausted.

“Servant’s don’t need sleep.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Saran leaned forwards, stretching until their back popped. How much time had passed? A few minutes at least. Damn it, they would have to go with a rough estimate, unless Lancer had managed to start the stopwatch. “I asked if you got tired.”

“I-”

“There are different types of tired,” they continued, staring at their failed experiment. Well, partly failed. They could scratch this one off the list, maybe. Still needed to see where it went. “Mental and physical. You can get mentally tired without being physically tired, just as you can get physically tired without being mentally tired.”

“And you’re very familiar with the latter.” He said it softly, almost amused, and Saran could feel his eyes on their form.

They didn’t meet his eyes. “Yes, I am. So? Do you get tired?”

Lancer sighed, “Sometimes.”

Saran nodded. They had thought so, three months of staying up with no wink of sleep. If only they could do that, then life would be perfect. “Well,” they said, “if you’re tired, go ahead and take a nap or something. You’ve certainly deserved that at least, besides, the tablet and the cards are in the other room. Nothing else for you to do.” Unless he left them, but somehow, they didn't think he would.

He snorted. “This is ironic,” he fell silent, “But I guess I probably should.” He sighed, and Saran glanced at him. He was rubbing his face. “Fine, I’ll rest. But just for a little bit. Don’t do anything reckless, okay?” He stared at them, his amber eyes seemed to glow.

Saran shrugged. “Okay.”

Lancer smirked softly, and leaned back against the glass again, closing his eyes. “I’m keeping you to your word,” he murmured, and then a few minutes later, he slumped slightly against Saran, his shoulder bumping theirs, his head resting lightly against the top of their own. His breaths were deep and even, his face smooth.

Saran froze, fighting the urge to shift away. Then slowly, they relaxed too. Slowly, they reached up and shifted the gas mask so they could breathe without it. Fear, they thought. Fear. Nightmares. Terrors. They took in a deep breath of air, and for a second, there was a trace of paranoia on the back of their tongue, and their heart sped up just a few notches. They would have shaken their head, but instead they just readjusted their mask and stared at the table where gas still spewed.

Close, but no dice.

Not yet, at least.


	15. I Feel Bad For Saran's FBI Agent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone and happy 4th of July! Thank you all for your comments and kudos, they mean a lot to me! I hope you enjoy the next chapter, and I hope you have a wonderful day!

Eventually, Saran had to move, otherwise they too would end up asleep, and that would be unacceptable, after all, they’d only been up for a day. So instead of risking sleep, they shifted away from Lancer, and once they were in the clear, darted across the lab to where their notebook lay open on the counter, ready and waiting. Almost guiltily, they glanced back at Lancer. Without their support, he was slowly falling to lean against the ground. Eh, he was a Servant, he would be fine.

They turned back to their notebook, tapped their pencil against their gas mask. Now, what to do about the fear gas. Technically, this potion hadn’t ended in failure, instead, the cause lay with technical difficulties. Sure, the gas that was spewing out now wasn’t what they wanted, but it was close. So did they redo this process with new equipment and see if it worked out in the end? Or did they scrap this equation and move onto the next? No, better to be safe than sorry, they would repeat this experiment and see how far it went.

But even then, if they followed this formula all the way to the end, it would be a potion, not a gas. What they wanted would be somewhere along the line, between this place in the formula and the end. But how would they know which place was the sweet spot? The best way to determine that would be to make a gas leak with each step after this one. Saran glanced at Lancer, then back at their notebook. Lancer would have a heart attack if they did that, no question about it. Which meant what? They couldn’t . . .

Oh.

_ Oh. _

They were such an idiot.

Lancer was right. Totally and completely, one hundred percent correct. It would be much simpler to make it a potion then turn it into a gas. They would know then, without causing any heart attacks, whether the potion worked or not. But that didn’t solve the problem of the potion not being a gas at room temperature. Which would mean the trick to the fear gas wouldn’t be in the creation process, it would be in the container. It was obvious, and they were blind. So, so blind not to have realized it sooner. If they couldn’t make it in gas form, then the container would have to do it for them. This container would not only have to hold the potion, but would also have to contain some type of incendiary that could turn the potion into a gas in an instant. Remote triggered? Impact triggered? They didn’t know, they weren’t an engineer. They could fix most of their lab equipment if it broke, but that was about the extent of their knowledge. This was different, completely different. They would have to hire someone else to make the containers for them. But they couldn’t do that until they finished the potion and found out the boiling temperature of the fear gas. 

No, it was a fear potion now, plain and simple.

But this also meant that the fear gas and intimidation potion would most likely have the same formula. The fear potion in the special containers would be the fear gas. The fear potion in the normal containers, with the right intent, would be the intimidation potion. Possibly, they would have to test it out before that hypothesis could be proven. So there was the plan, finish the fear potion, find out the boiling temp of the potion, hire someone to make the container, then test out the fear potion to see if intent could sway it into becoming an intimidation potion. Then, if it couldn’t be used that way, start on the intimidation potion.

They grinned behind their gas mask, tapping their pencil against their notebook. Oh yes, it was all coming together.

A thought struck them, the containers. The containers would have to have incendiaries in them. Otherwise known as bombs. Was it even legal to order them? They would have to be custom made too, and that normally meant expensive. Saran made a face, custom made also meant talking to people. Shudder. Still, as long as they weren’t arrested, it would be durable. Probably. They would cross that bridge when it came. There were more important matters to think about, like the fact that buying custom containers meant the containers wouldn’t be a permanent solution. After all, if Saran started buying bulk, somebody was going to get suspicious and contact the authorities, and that was a big no no. In the end, they would have to find a way to make the potion a gas at room temperature. Which meant they would be back to giving Lancer heart attacks.

Or they could just wait until after the Holy Grail War.

Their tapping pen stilled, and suddenly all the excitement that had been bubbling up in their stomach turned to sludge. After the Holy Grail War, what would happen after? They would have to get a new apartment, and a new lab, and they would have to get used to living alone again. There were pluses to that, no one would be making food at inopportune times, no one would be commenting on their sleep schedule, no one would freak out over their decisions in their lab and how those decisions affected their health. But . . . now that Lancer had pointed it out, that future no longer looked so perfect. Oh, it was still wonderful, but now that they knew they were lonely, thinking about that future almost . . . hurt. No. No. They refused. So what if they were lonely? It didn’t matter, they had their potions and that was what mattered. Besides, who knew what would happen in the future, it was better to simply focus on the now.

So they buried the slight trace of unease, and summoned their eagerness over the potion again. As always, it was enough.

. . .

Diarmuid Ua Duibhne woke up with a crick in his neck, curled up awkwardly on the floor, one arm pinned underneath him. He was almost positive he hadn’t fallen asleep in this position, he would have remembered that. He opened his eyes, blearily staring at the lab, trying to get his bearings.

Saran was moving around, whistling cheerfully as they messed with their lab equipment. Their gas mask was pushed to the top of their head, their safety glasses lay discarded on the table. Diarmuid took a wild guess and decided that the potion was probably out of steam. So, he pushed himself up, and rubbed his face, discarding the lingering fogginess that was all that remained of his nap. Besides the crick in his neck and his one arm being nothing but pins and needles, he felt remarkably good. Perhaps Saran was on to something about mental exhaustion versus physical exhaustion. “Good morning,” he said gently, “I take it everything’s under control?”

Saran jumped, spun, stared at him, then grinned. “You were right!” And with that cryptic statement, they turned back to their equipment and continued to dismantle it.

Diarmuid blinked, that certainly wasn’t what he was expecting. It wasn’t what he was expecting at all. He felt around for the doorknob, then opened the door to let fresh air into the lab. He had a feeling they both needed some. “Care to elaborate?”

He couldn’t see their eye roll, but he could imagine it. “The potion, you were right about it. I should just make it as is and then turn it into a gas.” They shot a look over their shoulder at him, grinning widely. Their teeth gleamed, bright and white against their brown skin. “The trick will be in the container!” The last word was practically singsong.

A feeling of delight shot through him. If the trick was in the container, then Saran wouldn’t be risking their life doing stupid stuff in the lab, no matter how good the reasoning. At least until the fear gas was finished. Then, then things would get crazy again, well, crazier, but hopefully they would remember to tell him the reasoning behind their actions before they did something that looked reckless and insane. He shook his head, smiled at them. “That’s good, I’m going to get started on breakfast, it should be ready in about an hour. Please don’t start anything you can’t finish within that time.”

Saran just flapped a hand at him, “I couldn’t anyway.”

Diarmuid made a disbelieving, “mhm” sound, and then slipped out of the lab.

. . .

Food was food, and after that, Saran busied themself with a thorough cleaning of the lab. It needed it, desperately. And after that was done, they could get back to their potions! Lancer helped them, and well, they weren’t going to argue, after all, it got things done quicker, which meant they could get back to doing the fun stuff sooner. They listened to more of the Artemis Fowl series, and Saran allowed their thoughts to drift. Surprisingly, they didn’t drift to their potions and the things that would come. Their thoughts drifted to Lancer, on the companionable silence that lay between them as they listened to the book. It was . . . nice. Nice was the word for it. They would miss this, after the Holy Grail War and their new apartment and the loneliness that would once again crept in. 

They missed Uncle.

The thought surfaced abruptly, sharp and sudden. Their hands stilled, before they resumed scrubbing the table, perhaps a tad harder than necessary. Uncle, they did miss him, they missed him a lot. But so what? And Lancer, after all this, they would miss him too. Another person they would have to add to the list of what they had lost. But, whatever. It always ended that way, should they have expected anything different this time around? This War had brought them together, and after this War they would go their separate ways. Simple as that. Lancer’s company was pleasant . . . well pleasentish, as pleasant as a person's company could be, they guessed, but that was it. That was all. It was simply better than they had dared to hope for when they had come, and it had startled them. But no more, no more. Fine, Lancer was a good acquaintance to have, fine. That was fine. But after this, they would never see each other again. 

And that was fine too. 

. . .

Another month passed, and Diarmuid watched worryingly as Saran threw themself into their experiments again. They didn’t talk, not really, but as always, Diarmuid listened in when Saran started muttering to themself. It wasn’t very different from the previous months, but something felt off. It was in the jerkiness of Saran’s motions, the way they frowned when they weren’t in their lab, the furrow between their brows. But as the days passed, these signs disappeared as Saran either solved whatever was bothering them or forgot about it.

In all honesty, they probably forgot about it.

They got more mana potions and mana boosts done, though the work done on those was sporadic and done sullenly whenever Diarmuid reminded them. Which he had to do often. His lord did not contact him again, and Diarmuid was, well, worried about the silence. Eight months left, it seemed like forever, and days in these rooms passed by in a blur, and Diarmuid knew the seemingly long stretch of time would pass quicker than expected. But he still didn’t know his lord's plans to win the war, beyond his wish and his desire for Saran’s potions, Diarmuid knew almost next to nothing. And it bothered him.

He could contact him, but this early in the game, plans were liable to change as soon as new information was ferreted out. Therefore, it would be useless to know the current plan, it would only change, so he didn’t ask. But that didn’t stop him from worrying.

He buried that worry under work and the relief that Saran hadn’t pulled another stunt in the lab. Not yet at least. 

They were making progress on the fear gas, Diarmuid could see that now. It took longer for the explosions to go off, and their eyes were always brimming with excitement. Perhaps it was this impending victory that had pushed away their worries, but once again, he didn’t ask. He just watched, and played solitaire, and read, and waited for them to confide with him if they needed it. But they didn’t, either solving the problem themself or forgetting it. 

Experimenting wasn’t the only thing they did, they researched too, scribbling things down in their notebook, making faces and biting their lip when things didn’t really go their way. He would ask, occasionally, about what they were looking up, and it was a momentary break in the silence. They would stare at him, wide - eyed, then say, “Things that are probably very, very illegal. If the cops knock on the door, tell them I’m not here.” Then Diarmuid would chuckle, and say that he wouldn’t. Then Saran would make another face, and turn back to their apparently illegal research.

Moments like these marked the time as days turned into nights and nights turned into days. The silence wasn’t heavy, or strangling, or watchful. It was comfortable, simply two people who had learned how the other worked, living together in peace between explosions in the lab. And Diarmuid was very glad that things had worked out like that, instead of turning into the mess he thought it would become in the beginning.

Very, very glad.


	16. Fantasy Name Generator is my Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello people, how are you doing? First off, I would like to thank you all for your comments and kudos, they mean the world to me. Finally, I hope you enjoy this next chapter and have a wonderful day!

Saran was dancing, toeing the line, tipping one way then the other, impossibly balancing everything as it burned around them. Metaphorically burned. But their scars under their gloves did feel like they were burning, flaring up again as everything tipped around them. They were grinning, and this was a different shade from their normal grin, both tired and triumphant, expectant and contented and gleeful, because after two and a half months they had cracked the code and every brush of magic against their skin was leading them directly to the result they wanted. So close, they could taste it, victory on their tongue, they just had to ride out these last few steps and then the fear potion would be done. Their first fear potion. And then they could move on from that to what lay beyond. 

They ran their fingers lightly over a tube, glowing slightly as liquid bubbled through it, they twisted that one as their other hand turned a valve, and then they were spinning around to decrease the heat in one area and increase the heat in another. Step after step, it wasn’t choreographed now, just guesswork, where it could explode at any second. But Saran had been through enough last second guessworks, and had been working on this potion for so long they could understand what was needed. So they twisted and spun and wrestled with the potion which didn’t want to be created until finally, finally, the last drop of liquid, clear with a reddish tinge, plopped into the vial. They stoppered it, grinning their triumphant, tired grin, almost laughing, snorting in delight. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to blink, their scars were on fire and they wanted to collapse but sheer glee kept them up.

“You did it.” Lancer said, softly, and Saran nearly jumped. They turned to stare at him, he smiled back, his amber eyes warm. “Congratulations.”

Saran just grinned back at him, giddy from success. “Of course I did it. Was there any ever doubt? But it’s not done yet, I still have to -”

“Sleep.” He interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

Saran ignored him, setting the vial back on the table and counting on their fingers “I still have to figure out if intent can turn it into a intimidation rather than fear, I have to figure out the boiling point, then I have to -”

“Sleep,” he said again. “You have to sleep. Three days Saran, three days.”

“I’ve stayed awake longer than this,” they gritted back, annoyance flashing through them, their train of thought lost. “I can still do what’s needed to be done.” Before they forgot. They had written what they needed to do, right? Right? They started to look around for the notebook.

“Saran,” and this time Lancer’s voice was sharper, “You’re weaving.”

They were, and the edges of their vision was blurry, but that didn’t matter because they had things to do.

“Saran,” Lancer’s voice was sharp, tired, and Saran looked back at him. He had his arms crossed, his eyebrow was still raised. “You can either go to bed of your own free will, or I can go in there, pick you up, and dump you on the couch. We both know you won’t be getting up after that.”

Saran scowled at him, because he was right. If they sat or laid down now, they wouldn’t be able to get back up, even if they weren’t tired, not really. But Lancer would follow through with his word. “Fine,” they growled, yanking off their goggles and setting them on the table. They jerked a hand through their hair, and sighed, heavily. “Fine,” they said again, softer, more resigned, because he was right. It was starting to get annoying, because Saran was finding out that Lancer was right a lot of the time.

Lancer smiled at them, “Good.”

. . .

Diarmuid read, getting through the last few paragraphs of his latest book. He was pretty sure he had cleared out Saran’s admittedly small library. He glanced up, staring at the alchemist, who was currently passed out on the couch. They had their face buried in the crook of one arm, hand hanging limply in the air, their other hand brushing the floor. Their body was twisted in a way that had to be painful, their hair stuck out in wild directions. They snored softly. It had barely been ten minutes since they had lain down.

With an amused eye roll, Diarmuid returned to his book. 

Forty seconds later, the lab exploded.

He nearly dropped the tablet, Gae Dearg materializing in his hand, Gae Buidhe appearing as soon as the tablet was safely set down. Saran gave a shriek of surprise, and fell off the couch, then, in a tangle of blankets, tried to run to the lab. Diarmuid stuck Gae Dearg in their way, dematerializing Gae Buidhe, “Hold on, Saran. You are not rushing into that.” 

Saran stared at his spear, then at him. Their teal eyes were wide, too wide, staring out from above heavy bags. “The potion just exploded. The potion just exploded, my notebook is still in my lab which is on fire and apparently you have two different spears! And my notebook is still in there!” Their voice rose a fraction.

Diarmuid lowered Gae Buidhe, and then allowed it to disappear as well, reaching out to grab the fire extinguisher. “I know, but your notebook was nowhere near the potion, correct?” Slowly, they nodded, “Then let me.”

“But - but - do you even know how to use that?”

Diarmuid nodded once, walking into the lab with the fire extinguisher. The main table was licked with violet flames, the whole room was filled with pungent smoke, glass crushed beneath his boots. He closed the door behind him, took a deep breath, then -  _ pain, in his stomach and his chest, it’s everything and it’s blinding but he can still see, can still see even if it's all so blurry, and it’s Fionn there, his golden hair shining like the sun and at first he’s relieved because it’s Fionn and Fionn will help him, Fionn’s his lord and Fionn’s his friend of course he will but there's something wrong in his eyes and there’s something wrong with the way his face is set but he can’t see because it's all so blurry -  _ Diarmuid took a reflexive step back, his back hit the door, the impact jarred him out of the memory. He closed his eyes, took a careful breath, nothing, he held it anyway and got to work.

Ten minutes later, when he was sure all the fires were out and Saran’s notebook was unharmed, he stepped through the door in spirit form, leaving the fire extinguisher in the room. “Well, good news is your potion worked.”

Saran stopped pacing, and glared at him. “Obviously it didn’t! Otherwise it wouldn’t have fucking exploded!”

Diarmuid raised an eyebrow, “When I breathed in the smoke, I got sucked into a memory,” his ribs and stomach and chest hurt just thinking about it, “It overpowered my magic resistance, so it had to be working.”

Saran stared at him, tugging at their gloves mindlessly. “But there was no intent, and it exploded, so . . .” They trailed off, then burst into a frenzy, “Marker, do we have a marker? How long was I asleep?” 

Diarmuid passed them a marker, a few had migrated to this room during the past few months, “About ten to eleven minutes.”

Saran snatched the marker and started scribbling on the door, their handwriting was barely legible at the best of times, but now it was an absolute wreck. “No, no no. Ten minutes plus room temp equals boom. Okay, which means somewhere in the last few minutes there is a variable that - you said that it overpowered your magic resistance even without intent behind it? But you broke through, you had to break through, and you’re not supposed to be able to break out of it, so I’m close . . .” They trailed off again, voice dissolving into half baked muttering, tripping over words as their marker scraped across the bulletproof glass. Diarmuid watched them with wide eyes, both enthralled and slightly terrified of how easily they slid into this state, of how frantic they were to solve this now while the lab was still filled with smoke and they still ran on ten minutes of sleep. “There!” They yelped, jabbing a finger, “I need my notebook to be sure, but some of the variables in that last few steps must affect how long the potion can stay stabilized at room temperature. I could find out if there is another temperature that would keep it stable, but that would be impractical. It’s probably . . .” They trailed off, then started to curse, violently, starting in English then dissolving into Latin, then Spanish, and then to Diarmuid’s surprise they started to throw some Russian and some french in there as well. 

He debated slow clapping, but settled with, “Is everything alright?”

“No, everything’s not alright!” They snapped at him, teal eyes flashing, “What I need to figure this out is in there!” They gestured angrily at the lab, where the smoke was still clung to the walls and discolored the air. “And you’ll restrain me before I can get my things!” They ran their hands through their hair and groaned

“You’re right, I would.” Then, because curiosity was itching at him, “Where did you learn so many swear words in other languages?”

“I’ve had to translate a lot of different books for research on some of my potions. So I know a little bit in a handful of different languages.” They said, staring at their lab with longing in their eyes.

He almost asked how research translated into cuss words, but then he decided he probably didn’t want to know. “You know what would help with the waiting?”

“Don’t you dare say it.”

“Sleep.”

Saran groaned.

. . .

In the end, Saran did go back to sleep, they didn’t think they would manage it, but within seconds the world was awash in nothingness, and then they were waking up to light again. It smelled, faintly, of food and cleaning supplies. They had a headache brewing. With a groan, they rolled off the couch and headed to the bathroom.

Where had it all gone wrong? The last bit, obviously, the last bit where they had winged it. They thought they knew the exact spot they had stepped too far off the course, but they needed their notebook to be sure. What was really surprising was the fact that Lancer had gotten hit with the effects. That shouldn’t have happened, not without somebody forcing their intent on the potion. So, how? Was it simply that strong without intent behind it? That was a possibility, and if that was true, then this potion had just shot up to being one of the most useful potions ever. Most mages didn’t grasp the fact that intent affected the potion’s performance, so to have a potion that was that strong without it . . . 

Suddenly, things were looking up. Saran had a good feeling about today. 

They left the bathroom, dragging their hair out of their face and mindlessly grabbing the plate Lancer passed them. It had taken about five hours to create that fear potion. If they focused on nothing but that in the next few days, then they should have the correct formula by the time Lancer made them sleep again. It would take about an hour to clean the lab and let the air filter out, well, less time really, if they took away the lab equipment before the potion exploded. So that was about six hours per potion. Not bad. Gas mask, they would have to wear the gas mask. Safety glasses too, the pair they had been using had been on the table which had been on fire, so it was probably a melted mess, but they were pretty sure there were extras in the closet . . .

“Saran.” Lancer’s voice, vaguely amused and vaguely exasperated.

Saran blinked out of their thoughts and stared at him. “What.” The word was a bit unfriendly, but they had been thinking. They hated it when people interrupted them while thinking.

“Food,” he said, and this time there was definite amusement in that voice.   
Saran looked down at their still full plate. “Oh,” slowly, they began to eat.

“I also took the liberty of cleaning up the lab while you were sleeping,” he continued, “I figured you would want to get started on the potion as soon as possible.”

Huh, when Lancer put it like that, it almost sounded like he knew them. Which, Saran guessed, he did, kinda. Maybe a little bit. “Uh, thanks.” They muttered as they inhaled their food.

“You’re welcome,” he said, and Saran wasn’t looking at him, but they could feel his smile. “Also,” his tone turned sheepish, “I’ve read your entire library of books on your kindle.” The, I don’t know what to do now, was heavily implied.

“Good for you,” they muttered back, then paused, tilting their head. “I might have an Amazon Prime subscription. You’ll have to check, but if I do, you can rent prime books for free that way. Only ten though, I think.” They weren’t sure. They hadn’t touched their tablet unless it was for research purposes in months. 

“Oh, I’ll have to see if that works, thank you.” He sounded . . . happy, and Saran tried for a second to imagine how a Irish warrior from whatever time period he was from enjoyed reading modern books from a tablet. It was an odd image. Then again, they really didn’t have room to talk, did they?

“You’re welcome, I think.” They scarfed the last morsel from their plate, then stood, stretching. They glanced at their lab, and it was indeed clean, remarkably so. It made them feel odd, to have Lancer helping without Saran asking. Saran wasn’t the type of person to help somebody for no reason. Perhaps he had been bored? Or perhaps he just liked being helpful? Then again, that didn’t matter, only the potion mattered. “Whelp,” they said, grinning, cracking their knuckles and stretching their back, “let's get this party started.”

. . .

Roughly nine hours and three explosions later, Saran had located the exact spot of the formula that controlled how long the potion lasted. They left the lab in desperate need of coffee, feeling satisfied with their progress. Lancer shoved a plate of food at them as soon as they exited, they were tempted to argue, but he’d been lenient today, only pulling them out once to remind them to eat something. So they took the plate, grabbed the fork, and started eating, scarfing down whatever it was without tasting it.

“Things are going good?” Lancer asked as soon as they resurfaced to breathe.

“Just keep the coffee coming and they will be.” Saran replied, shoving another mouthful into their maw.

Lancer nodded, then spoke again. “You did have a prime subscription, by the way. I thought you should know.”

Saran shrugged, because they weren’t sure why it was relevant, but they weren’t going to be totally impolite. They paused for a half second, not being totally impolite. It was weird, when they thought about it. But then they turned their attention to something actually important, the potion. So far, the longest they had gotten the potion to last was twenty minutes. Saran figured that if they could get it stable for an hour, then it would stay stable. They were close, they could feel it. Maybe in the next few rounds. 

Saran set their now empty plate aside, grabbed a steaming cup of coffee from the counter, Lancer must have made it while they were thinking, and drank it all in one gulp. It burned on the way down, still too hot for comfort. They didn’t care. They set the cup resolutely down on the table, then, as if in a daze, their mind swimming with possibilities, they walked back into the lab, shutting the door behind them. 

It did not take a few more rounds. 

It took another thirty hours.

, , ,

For the past hour, Diarmuid Ua Dubhne had been attempting to read while Saran played solitaire. Backwards. It was killing him, to see kings up top and to watch them work from aces up on the bottom. He found himself watching their game, how they would mutter under their breath if they ran into a problem, occasionally giving up and reshuffling the cards and occasionally solving the deck, switching from normal to backwards to normal again with surprising flexibility. He wasn’t sure if he could do that, but he wanted to try. 

He glanced at the time, it had been an hour. Exactly an hour since Saran had finished the last potion. He set his book down gently, waiting for the sharp crack of glass, the boom of the explosion, the crackle of flames. Nothing. Saran looked up, their teal eyes sharp, their bags more pronounced. “That’s good news.” They got up with a stretch, cracking their back, “It will probably stay stable, but I’ll wait a day just in case.”

Diarmuid looked back at the lab. The potion sat stoppered in the middle of the empty table, almost managing to look inconspicuous and innocent. All the counters had been cleaned off, anything flammable or breakable tucked away, every door closed. Soot streaked the ceiling, heavy and dark. The marks hadn’t been cleaned yet, but they would be. Diarmuid would make sure of that, it was, after all, his lord’s room, even if Saran was using it. It would be rude not to clean it. “And what will you do in that time?”

Saran yawned, widely, and for some reason the motion reminded him of a cat. “Sleeping.”

Diarmuid raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Willingly?”

Saran side eyed him. “It happens occasionally.”

“I think I’m in shock. Are we just going to leave it there?” He gestured at the potion.

Saran twisted, staring at their lab, considering. “You aren’t going to do anything to my potion. And yes, I’m just leaving it there. I’m going to need a container in the future, something I can put these things into to contain the blast . . .” Their voice trailed off, and Diarmuid had a sinking feeling that their willingness to get to sleep was about to disappear.

“Makes since.” Diarmuid watched Saran as they swept their cards into a stack, pushed them into the box. “You are going to sleep, correct?”

Saran glared at him. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

He huffed a small laugh, “Just checking. Goodnight Saran.”

Saran stared at him for a second, then flopped down onto the couch. “Yeah, whatever. Goodnight.” It didn’t take them long to fall asleep, it never did. Diarmuid had a sneaking suspicion they fell asleep if their eyes were closed for longer than a minute, no matter how tired they truly were, their body’s catching up to all the time they spent awake. It would make sense, a lot of sense.

For a while, he watched them, the rise and fall of their chest as they breathed, the awkwardness of their position as they twisted, one arm trapped beneath their body. He wasn’t quite sure how they managed to stay asleep for any amount of time, but they had yet to wake up once because of a painful position. With a shake of a head and a smirk, he shifted into spirit form, and left the room.

It was daytime, now, and the season had changed, the warm sunlight filtering through the air from the windows. He resisted the urge to bask in it, Saran’s windowless rooms may have been perfectly fine for them, but he required the outdoors in heavier doses than fleeting glimpses. He paused for a second, staring out the window at the woods beyond. He could feel his lord’s bounded field, a crackling hum at the edges of his senses. The staff, the few there were, meandered around, dusting and cooking, some guarding the premises. He didn’t feel the presence of another Heroic Spirit, but then again, he wasn’t expecting too. Not this early, not yet. Perhaps in a couple of months, then he might see some kind of action that wasn’t explosion related. It still wasn’t likely though. 

He continued wandering, and found himself in his Lord’s study, standing in spirit form, watching him work. Lord Alexander Humphrey was writing, his pen flying over the paper, his script much more elegant than Saran’s chicken scratch could ever hope to be. He paused, looked up. “Lancer, what a surprise.”

Diarmuid shifted into physical form, kneeling, fist over his chest. “My Lord, pardon my interruption.”

Lord Alexander Humphry set his pen down, and stared at Diarmuid. “Is there a reason you are here?” His voice wasn’t particularly friendly, but it wasn’t unfriendly either. Just, calmly neutral, withholding judgment for now.

Diarmuid thought of Fionn, of his shining hair, of his eyes in Diarmuid’s final moments, and bile caught in his throat. He forced it down, smoothed his face. “Just doing my rounds, my lord. Saran is sleeping, so I am patrolling the area.”

“Hmmm,” he said, “Very well, how is Saran getting on with the potions? I’ve noticed an increase in explosions lately.”

Diarmuid’s knee was starting to hurt, pressed against the ground, the wooden floors unyielding. “An unfortunate side effect of the creation process, my lord. They did say that making their potions was a dangerous business, did they not?” He sounded slightly stilted to his own ears. Mentally, he cursed, he’d become so relaxed around Saran, he was having difficulty putting on his respectful manner with his lord. It had been easier with Fionn, Fionn had been his friend, and it was safe to joke with him, to throw insults and sarcasms, as long as none of them were truly harmful. This now, this felt false, but he had to do it. He would be loyal this time. He had to be loyal this time. “Rest assured, my lord, there should be less explosions in the near future. They are close to discovering the formula for the fear potion.” Had discovered the formula of the fear potion, if this latest one managed to last a full day.

“That’s good,” his Lord said, “And how are you two getting along?” He didn’t say it like he cared, he said it like he was storing information away for later. 

“It was rough at first, my lord, but things have smoothed out some.” He hesitated, then continued, “Forgive me, my lord, but if I may ask, do we know the names of any of the other contenders?” He was starting to hunger for knowledge, any knowledge about his opponents. He only wanted a scrap, maybe two, to play with and see what he could figure out. 

Lord Alexander Humphrey raised an eyebrow. “I never did tell you their names did I? The Einzbern Master is a homunculus,” he snorted, as if the idea was preposterous. “Her name is Iviana Von Einzbern, we shouldn’t have to worry about her. Homunculi are hardly true mages.” His voice dripped with disdain, and Diarmuid hid a frown. Just because she was a homunculus didn’t mean she couldn’t be dangerous. “The Tohsaka Master is the eldest daughter of the family, Yusuke, very strong, from what I’ve managed to find out. Main affinity is fire, we’ll have to watch out for her. The Matou Master is the middle son, Teruo, like all of his bloodline, he is weak and degenerate, any spirit he summons won’t be strong. Finally, we have the one in the Clocktower, Mel Pearce, strong healing magic, has access to good artifacts with the Clocktower’s resources at her disposal. The last two remain unknown.”

“Thank you, my lord, for the information.” Diarmuid murmured. He didn’t like how his lord dismissed some of the Master’s automatically, it didn’t really matter how strong they were, what mattered was how clever they were. Even the weakest could take down the strongest if the conditions were right. He just had to make sure his lord’s overconfidence didn’t get them killed. Very well, he was a Knight of Fionna, he would deal.

“You should get back to your post.” He said it calmly, picking up his pen and returning to his paperwork.

“As you wish, my lord.” Diarmuid slipped into spirit form, travelling from room to room until he was finally in Saran’s lab. He allowed himself a heavy sigh, to drop his formality as he reformed and slid to the floor. He felt . . . heavier after that conversation, and he felt more relaxed here. Unease churned in his gut, there was the slightest sting of betrayal, his own betrayal. How could he feel better here, in this room, with Saran passed out a few feet away than at his lord’s side?. He would do better, he would have to do better.

He closed his eyes and slid his hand into his hair. Fionn’s face flashed into view, gold hair glimmering, blue eyes solemn, the tightness in his lips. Diarmuid’s eyes snapped open, he sucked in a big breath of air, then reached over and snagged the deck of cards. 

He would try Saran’s backward way of doing Solitaire. 

Perhaps it would take his mind off of things.


	17. Que the Author Realizing that Saran and Medea Would Work Really Well Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Fist off, thank you for all the comments and kudos, the really make my day! Second off, chapter updates might be a bit wonky for a bit. On one hand, I just finished off two multi chapter fics, but on the other, I just started college. So just be warned! Finally, I hope you enjoy the next chapter and have a wonderful day!

Saran woke up, eyes snapping open, staring uncomprehending at the ceiling. For a few seconds, it was just that, staring, wondering, their mind for the moment blissfully empty, then everything snapped back into place and they tumbled off the couch and raced to the lab. Their potion sat on the table, glittering in the meager light, reddish liquid barely visible through the glass. It looked innocent, as if it couldn’t throw a person into their worst nightmare. Better yet, it hadn’t exploded. Saran rubbed their eyes, blinked, then looked at it again. Nope, still there. They grinned, wide and delighted.

“Eager aren’t we?” Lancer’s voice, amused and soft, “You’re up earlier than I expected.”

Saran twisted to stare at him. He was sitting, leaning against the wall, playing cards. There was an obvious lack of breakfast, which meant he hadn’t started cooking yet. Saran felt an almost ridiculous urge to laugh, it felt like the first time he had missed breakfast since he started cooking, but they strangled it down. “Yeah, yeah,” they grabbed the bottle, held it gently in their hands. “Get over here, will you? Got something I need to test.”

Lancer raised an eyebrow, “And what do you need to test?” But for all the suspicion in his voice, he still stood and made his way over.

Saran almost spent of couple of minutes searching for a brush, but, fuck it. The brush wasn’t necessary, not really. They popped open the bottle. Fear, brushing against their gloves, whispering against their skin. Fear, their scars were on fire, remembered pain washing through their memories. Fear, an empty house, dusty and echoing, furniture shrouded in white cloth. Fear, a burial, rain pouring down from the sky, feeling numb, the overwhelming sense of no, not again, not again. Fear, a car, driving down a highway, scenes flashing by, curled up into a ball in the backseat, eyes closed as if it could make it all go away. Fear. Saran sucked in a sharp breath, tasted it on their tongue. This was powerful stuff, they hardly had to concentrate and already it was battering at their senses. “Hold still.”

Something flashed in Lancer’s eyes. “Saran,” his voice was tight, “what are you doing?”

Oh yes, he did say that they would have to explain stuff to him, didn’t he? Ugh, it would be so simple if he just understood. Why didn’t people just understand? It should be obvious. It was obvious, but still . . . “I’m seeing if I can twist the use of this fear potion into intimidation. I would put it on myself, but you’re immune to magic or whatnot. So I’m going to put it on you instead and see if I’m intimidated.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

Saran shrugged, “Then I start from scratch with the intimidation potion. It’s a long shot, but I need to test it anyway.” A grin, “Now hold still.” They dipped a finger into the potion, felt the fear, strong and potent. It wasn’t what they needed. Intimidate. They furrowed their brow, lifted the finger to Lancer’s uncertain face. Intimidate. To scare others away. They flicked their finger across his cheek, closed the bottle, then stepped back, staring.

Lancer raised an eyebrow. “Is it working?”

Saran frowned. Of course it wasn’t, they had the wrong test subject. They should have known it wasn’t going to work on them. “Would you go outside and see some of the staff? I am aware you have it on, so I’m able to fight off the affects.” 

“I’m not going outside to scare some poor maid for your curiosity, Saran.” He sounded disappointed, and Saran couldn’t figure out why. Who cared if some maid got frightened, as long as the potion worked. But they weren’t going to argue with him over something like this. No, there were other things they could do.

“Fine, I’ll do it.” And before he could say anything, they opened the bottle back up, dashed a bit across their face, closed it, and pushed past him, out of the lab and out of their little room for the first time since they’d arrived.

. . .

Diarmuid almost cursed aloud. What did they think they were doing? No, he knew what they were doing, they were running full steam ahead without thinking, or at least overthinking. Or more accurately, not caring. They couldn’t just test unsuspecting staff members with a potion designed to intimidate people! Especially when those staff members were hired by Lord Alexander Humphrey. Oh God, what would his lord say? Diarmuid could already see the look of incredulity on his face, the disbelief and the surprise.

So he twisted and shifted into spirit form, chasing after them. He knew Saran was fast, they dodged explosions on a regular basis after all, but Diarmuid was a Heroic Spirit, which meant he was still faster than them. He caught them right as they were stepping out, barring their way with an arm. Luckily nobody was in the hallway. He felt bad just thinking about how scared some random person would be if they turned the corner and saw them both. Diarmuid’s cheek still tingled from where the potion had been applied, and Saran had their own dose dashed across their skin. 

Still . . . it might be a little funny to see a person’s face after getting the full brunt of two doses of intimidation potion. Only a little bit though, and only if he knew it was safe. Which he didn’t. Not that he would anyway, of course.

“No, Saran.” He said, looking down at them, his voice disapproving.

Saran stared at his arm, then at him, then his arm, then at him again, brows furrowed, teal eyes blazing. “Lancer, I need to test this, and neither of us are prime test subjects. The smart thing to do would be to find a staff member and test it on them. It’s the only way I’ll know if it works or not.”

“You already know it works,” he said, strangling down his impatience. “It worked on me.”

“No,” they sounded frustrated, “The fear gas worked on you. I’m trying to figure out if the fear potion can be twisted into something different. If it doesn’t work when it's twisted, then I’ll have to restart on the intimidation potion. And the only way I’ll know is if I test it on somebody!” Their voice rose, wildy, a bit desperately.

Diarmuid sighed, this wasn’t working, it was time to change tactics. “And you think that your benefactor will be pleased if you just test it on his staff?”

“He wants potions, doesn’t he?” They jutted their chin and glared at him.

“Certain types of potions,” he argued, “which do not include an intimidation potion at this time.”

“You could ask.” Saran said.

Diarmuid closed his eyes, counted to three, then looked down at Saran. “You really don’t care that you might end up terrifying someone, do you?”

“As long as it doesn’t kill them, then no.” They jerked a shrug, narrowed their eyes and continued to glare. “I’ve told you before, I’m not the best person in the world.”

“I know you’ve said that,” Diarmuid ran a hand through his hair, then sighed heavily. “You promise it won’t scar them for life?”

“It’s an intimidation potion,” Saran pointed out, “It shouldn’t. But the thing is I don’t know, so I have to find out.”

“Fine, I’ll ask, just . . . just get back inside before someone sees you.”

Their scowled flickered into a grin, so sudden that Diarmuid almost took a reflexive step back. “Great!” Then they turned and walked back into the room as if nothing had happened.

_ “My lord,”  _ Diarmuid thought as he walked in after them, making sure to firmly shut the door behind him,  _ “Saran is requesting your permission to test some of their intimidation potion on the staff.” _

It took a few seconds, but the reply came.  _ “Very well, just make sure there is no long lasting damage.” _

_ “Thank you, my lord.”  _ He looked at Saran, fidgeting impatiently with their gloves, staring at him with desperate eyes. “He said yes.” Their face lit up, “but, I’m not letting you out.”

Saran gaped at him, “What do you mean you’re not letting me out?”

Diarmuid crossed his arms and stared back at them. “You’re smarter than that Saran, you should know this. I’m supposed to keep you safe. Having you walking around terrifying people is not a good thing for your safety. A spy sent by one of the other masters could spot you, and then what? Your secrecy will be compromised. I know we both know that this won’t last forever, but we need to try to keep your presence a secret for as long as possible.”

Saran threw their hands up. “Fine, fine. I get it. You go then, and tell me exactly what happens. Approximately how long it takes for people to notice, how strong the reaction, if different people react differently, how long it lasts, and -”

He raised a hand, “I get it, I get it, I’ll see you in a little bit.” 

“Yeah, whatever.” They turned to their lab, tugging at their gloves, and Diarmuid, with a brief eye roll, left.

. . .

The first person he encountered was a young woman, and at first, it was Diarmuid who froze, hand reaching up to cover the mole on his cheek. He had forgotten. How had he forgotten? For a second, he saw Grainne’s eyes, heard her words as she spoke the geas that wrapped around him as tight as noose. He had countered, tried to wiggle his way out, but she was strong willed and stubborn, and in the end, she had gotten her way. He dreaded seeing this woman’s eyes cloud the same way Grainne’s had, he didn’t want them to turn soft and her smile silly. He didn’t want her to look.

Vaguely, he couldn’t help but wonder if Saran’s potion worked in reverse.

Then the woman looked at him and fainted, the expression on her face filled with horror. 

Diarmuid slowly stopped trying to cover the spot, staring incredulously at the woman’s prone form. That was different, very different. Way better, in a horrible way, then what could have happened. He walked over, picked her up, and searched for a place to set her down where she wouldn’t just be lying in the hallway. Maybe Saran could figure out a way to lessen the dose, so that people wouldn’t faint when they saw him, but they didn’t fall in love either.

Now there was a thought.

. . .

Saran turned back to the remainder of their potion as soon as Lancer left, setting up the equipment required. They found their goggles, slipped them on, put on the gas mask as well, just in case. It was time to find out the boiling point of this potion. Although, perhaps a simple explosion would be better, one that sent the potion everywhere. That could work, and although people might wear gas masks, they couldn’t prevent a liquid from splashing against their clothes. Still, they wanted to figure out the boiling point anyway. Just in case. They grabbed their notebook, made a table, placed the bottle, and set the temp. Finally, Saran hopped onto the counter, leaning back to watch the reaction occur.

They had changed the temperature four times by the time Lancer slipped into the room, an odd look on his face. Saran didn’t try to decipher it, they doubted it mattered, they just flipped to a new page and raised their eyebrows at him. “So? Tell me everything.”

Diarmuid leaned against the counter on the other side of the divider, “Well, it’s too strong.”

“How so?”

“People either faint, run away, or break into hysterics.” Saran started to write it down immediately, pencil scratching against paper. “They react the second they look at me, and it lasts about an hour,” he looked at the time, “an hour and ten minutes,” he amended. “Finally, no one seemed to be immune or able to fight it off the way you were able to.” He hesitated, “Saran?”

“Yeah?” If the reaction was this potent, then they would have to lessen the amount used. How much had they dashed across Lancer’s face? Not a lot. So they had two options, lessen the dose, or start from scratch. It would make more sense to start from scratch, this potion was designed to terrify people, of course it was too strong for proper intimidation.

“I have a hypothetical question for you.”

“Shoot.” They tapped their pencil against their cheek, staring down at the scrawling notes. If they took out the obsidian and clear quartz, that should lessen the effect of the potion overall. However, they would have to focus on intimidation through the whole process of creating the potion. Although perhaps . . .

“Say someone is cursed so that people react a certain way towards them. Would you be able to create something that nullified the effects of the curse?”

“Yeah.” . . . they would only have to focus on intimidation at certain points of the potion. That might work. They would have to try it.

“Saran, your potion is boiling.”

Saran looked up, and indeed, the potion was boiling. They marked down the time and the temperature, then set the notebook down. They could start today, after this potion was done boiling. “Hey, Lancer.”

“Hm?” The noise was a bit soft, a bit worried. 

“You like tactics, which would be better, a gas, or a liquid? This potion is strong enough as it is, with intent behind it, it should be strong enough if it splashes against a person.”

“It depends, gas lasts longer, but an explosion of liquid would be cheaper to create.”

Saran groaned, “I got that far.”

“I wasn’t done, someone with my speed would be able to dodge an explosion of liquid. So the real question is, heroic spirits or human enemies?”

“Ugh,” Saran pinched the bridge of their nose, then sighed. “I guess there's no hope for it, is there?” Their next words were laced thickly with disgust. “I’m going to have to talk to an expert.”


	18. An Explosive Device, Yes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello wonderful people! Look at me, super early. Its a miracle. Anyhow, thank you all for your comments and kudos, you guys are the absolute best! Here's the next chapter and I hope you have a lovely day! (and with any luck, the next chapter will be out before the end of the month)

What was he doing? Diamruid wasn’t entirely sure, because he shouldn’t have asked that question. Shouldn’t have asked about nullifying his curse. Saran was in his lord’s employment, it would be selfish of him to draw away their attention from their work, especially since they’d already spent so long distracted from their main job. Selfish and unloyal of him. Wrong. Yet the question had forced itself from his lips, hope burning hot in his heart.

Was it wrong of him to wish that Saran had the ability to nullify his curse? Perhaps. Was it wrong of him to ask? Yes.

But Saran didn’t seem to be paying attention anymore, he wasn’t even sure that they had been paying attention when he’d asked either. Which was a good thing, because if Saran hadn’t truly been paying attention, that meant they wouldn’t leap at the idea like a starving wolf leapt at a hunk of meat. Which meant his mistake would just be that, a mistake that didn’t really go anywhere.

He would have to do better.

He would do better.

. . .

Saran Secada hated people. It was a facet of their life. Most people were a waste of time and were terribly annoying. Lancer was an exception to that, but he wasn’t really people, he was a Heroic Spirit, so they weren’t sure he counted. Anyway, Saran hated people, and they especially hated interacting with people.

The phone rang in their hand, their notes were on their lap, their legs swung slightly as they balanced on the counter. The phone rang again, and the sound made Saran’s stomach roil. Honestly, it was simple enough. If the phone rang, you picked it up, two plus two equals four. Hell, they picked up the phone when it rang, even if it was just to hang up after the first few words spoken, but they still picked up. The phone rang again, Saran started to play with their pencil, started to count the seconds.

Finally, five agonizing seconds later, a click, a voice on the other side of the line. “Hello, how may I help you?”

Saran swallowed the immediate ‘fucking finally’ and went straight to the point. “I would like to inquire how to make a bomb.”

A brief pause. 

“I’m sorry?”

Saran restrained a groan. “I am trying to make an explosive device. I would like to talk to one of your experts on how to do so.” Wait, whomever it was was probably going to try to call the police. “It’s for a research project.” Technically true.

“Of course,” the person on the other side said, disbelievingly, “I’ll send you through to one of our experts.”

Saran flashed a grin, before it faded away with the prospect of talking to another person. Ugh, this part of their job was the absolute fucking worse. Then, two beeps, and then, the horrible sound of nothingness. Saran jerked the phone away from their ear and stared at it. “They hung up on me!”

“Saran,” Lancers voice, from where he was cooking in the kitchen, “I believe that would be normal when you ask someone how to make a bomb.”

Saran twisted to glare at him, and he stared back with an amused amber gaze. “You have a better idea?”

“Yes, I thought you were going to hire someone to make the bombs for you.”

“I was,” Saran snarled, “until i realized that shipping bombs would be a horrible idea! What if they explode in transit! Then my money would have been wasted and I wouldn’t have any bombs!”

“Yes,” Lancer said dryly, “that is what you should be worried about. Less bombs.” He shook his head, a smile flashing across his lips, there, then gone. Saran glared at him harder. He was laughing at them. They knew he was laughing at him. Whatever. They turned away from the sight and started to punch the next number.

This one picked up almost immediately, thank goodness. “Hello, how may I help you?”

“I would like to ask one of your professional experts how to make an explosive device. It's for a research project.”

“Urgh, just a second,” silence, no beeps, but still agonizing silence, then the voice came back, “I’m going to transfer you to one of the higher ups? That isn’t really my department.”

“Good.”

“Saran.”

Saran rolled their eyes, “Thank you.” Cheery music came down through the phone, and Saran twisted to glare at Lancer again. “Seriously?”

He raised an eyebrow, “If you’re going to ask how to make a bomb, you should at least be polite about it.”

A click from the phone. “Hello, how may I help you?”

“I would like to inquire how to make a bomb . . . please.” Lancer sent them a brief smile, Saran sent him back a glare.

“A bomb.” 

“An explosive device, yes.”

“What do you need it for?”

Saran straightened. “Well, I have a substance that I need to spread over a wide area, and I was thinking that a container that exploded on impact would do the trick.”

A brief pause of silence, then, “Oh! Are you with UL Firefighter Safety Institute? I’ve heard that they are doing research along that line. Supposedly, they’re trying to figure out ways to spread water, or nitrogen, or other fire stopping substances, over fires that doesn’t include the use of planes and helicopters. Something more environmentally friendly.”

“Huh?”

Whomever it was took that as an affirmative. “That’s delightful! I would be happy to help! Now, can you tell me a few things about this substance of yours . . .”

. . .

Diarmuid continued cooking, listening to Saran’s conversation with half an ear. Well, not a conversation, Saran was barely talking, although their pencil scribbled over their paper at an alarming rate. The person on the other side of the phone he couldn’t hear at all. However, with each second passing, with each clarifying question Saran asked, the sting of his earlier question eased. Two instances, first when he’d felt more relaxed in Saran’s presence then his lords, the second when he’d asked about a cure for his curse. How was this so hard? It shouldn’t be hard, it hadn’t been with Fionn.

But Fionn had earned his loyalty time and time again, his lord now just demanded it. 

Diarmuid closed his eyes, sucked in a sharp breath, then let it out, forcing his shoulders to relax, his face to smooth. It didn’t matter how his loyalty was given, as long as he gave it. It was why he was here, in this battle, in this war, his very reason for existing in this time and place. A second chance to prove that he could be a loyal knight.

“Fucking finally!” Saran slammed the phone onto the counter and jumped off, “I’ve got it!”

“You didn’t say thank you,” Diarmuid noted, turning off the heat to the stove. 

Saran sent him a rude gesture. “Whatever, what matters is I’m free!”

“Not for much longer,” he grabbed a plate, set it down, started to serve. “Food’s ready, be careful, it’s hot.” Saran snorted as he passed them the plate, watching as they snatched utensils. “Are you going to be building bombs in here?”

They waved their fork around. “Probably not, that can be shelved for a later date. I’ve got a proper intimidation potion to make.” 

“After you make a couple mana and mana boosts,” he pointed out, “just so my lord does not have to contact me again about your lack of progress.”

Saran rolled their eyes, “He has a plethora of the things, enough for this war and a dozen others. What could he possibly need them all for?”

Diarmuid didn’t answer, because he did not know. In all honesty, it almost worried him, he would have preferred Saran out of this war, somewhere safe. He blinked. There he went again, worrying about Saran instead of his lord. He bit the inside of his cheek and changed the subject, hoping it would help. “I didn’t know you could play Solitaire backwards.”

Saran’s fork stopped halfway to their mouth, they stared at him with wide teal eyes. “Shit.” They said softly, “I did do that in front of you, didn’t I?”

“Did you not mean to?”

“No.”

And Diarmuid, although he was curious now, did not push.

. . . 

Saran ate numbly, mind blank with shock. They had played Reverse Solitaire in front of Lancer. He had seen them play it, had probably watched them for a while. They thought back to this morning, to when he’d been sitting, leaning against the wall. He’d been playing cards then, had he tried it out? They couldn’t remember. Either way, he was smart enough to get it. They couldn’t believe it, they had played it in front of him. 

Uncle’s way of playing.

They didn’t remember Uncle teaching them how to play it that way, but they remembered playing it that way with him, switching from reverse to normal to back again, challenging each other, laughing and cursing at the cards presented to them. It had been a thing for the two of them, an inside joke meant for nobody else. A challenge created only for them. And now Lancer knew, he had seen them play it, had probably figured it out for himself. And they . . . they . . . they weren’t angry that he knew, though it felt like they should be. They weren’t happy, but they weren’t upset, it was just an odd mixture of confusion and acceptance. He knew, and they couldn’t do anything about it. That was . . . that was fine.

It was fine.

And that thought was startling, because it shouldn’t be fine, they should be upset, they should be angry, if not at him then at theirself but they weren’t . . . and they couldn’t figure out why. Why weren’t they angry? Why weren’t they upset? Why were they okay with this? 

They didn’t know.

Saran sucked in a deep breath, and finished their food quickly, scarfing down the remains. They could think on this later, when they didn’t have potions to create and benefactors to satisfy. They set their fork on their plate, stood up, and got to work.

. . .

Later, one mana and one mana boost potion later to be exact, Saran ate distractedly and focused on their notes. Lancer was sipping a cup of something, they hadn’t really been paying attention, and their own cup of coffee sat on the counter before them, steaming gently. It and the food had been mostly ignored in favor of their notebook and what challenge the intimidation potion would present.

“Do you have an idea of what you're going to do?” Lancer asked, the first time he’d spoken sense he’d mentioned backwards solitaire. It felt like an apology of some kind, sorry for talking about something you’re uncomfortable with, let's talk about something you like. Saran had the vaguest urge to wack him for saying those words in such a gentle and apologetic tone. To curse him or something. He didn’t need to fucking apologize, but they didn’t, there were more appetizing things to focus on.

“Yeah,” they said instead, their voice eager, “The fear potion is made up of four different stones, if I cut some of those, the effects should be drastically reduced, of course I’ll have to redo the whole process step by step, but as it’s only two stones, it shouldn’t take as long to figure out the process.” They were thinking of cutting clear quartz and obsidian. Memory wasn’t needed for this one, and overwhelming emotions would just send them back to square one. Kyanite and Black Onyx with the right intent should end up being enough for this. 

“Will you be starting today?”

Saran looked up to stare at him. Lancer was watching them with his amber gaze, eyes slightly veiled. “What do you think?”

“I think that this is the perfect time for y -”

“I swear, if you say sleep in that sentence I will hurt you. Somehow.”

He smirked faintly, “I’ll take that as a yes, you plan on working yourself into unconsciousness again.” 

Saran scowled at him, because when he put it like that, their way of working almost sounded stupid. Which was stupid, because their way of working was absolutely fine as it was. If they yielded to Lancer’s sleep at least eight hours a day crap, they wouldn’t get anything done! They grabbed their cup of coffee and drained it. “Well, Lancer, it’s about to get very volatile in here.”

He sighed, “We’ve already had one explosion today.”

Whatever, They grabbed their plate and cup and handed it to him through the door. “Just, just don’t stop me if something blows. I’ll warn you if something starts to get really dangerous.”

He smiled, taking their plate and cup, “Good.”

They rolled their eyes and shut the door, grabbing their goggles, slipping them on. The excitement was building up higher now, sending their heart beating, forcing their grin to spread wide across their face. It was time.


	19. The Word You're Looking For is Domestic, Saran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Look at me, scooting in before the month ends, honestly, I'm impressed with myself. As always, thanks so much for your support, I love every comment and kudo I get! I hope you enjoy this next chapter and have lovely day!

A month passed by, a blur of movement and explosions and questions and trials. Saran was delighted, they were making good progress, while also managing to keep a semi-steady flow of mana and mana boost potions, while also making sure to eat and get slightly more rest than normal to keep Lancer off their back. And by good progress, they meant they were staring at the finished project right now, in it’s little bullet proof box, just in case it decided to explode sometime during the next day. They didn’t think it would, but it was better to be prepared. Also, they were pretty sure Lancer was getting tired of scraping ash and smoke streaks off the walls and table.

Saran sighed, pushing away from the table and rubbing their hand through their hair. After this was . . . well nothing. Their undetectability potion they couldn’t do until they had proper supplies, and they would have to go out and about to get those supplies. The rest of their in-progress works didn’t really spark anything in them right now. And they really needed to buckle down on the mana and mana boost potions. And yes, those were exciting to create, and they weren’t predictable even if there was a set path or a guideline, but still . . . they could see time stretching out before them, no longer as appetizing as it had once been.

Six and a half months before the Holy Grail War started. They had been here for almost half a year now. They didn’t know what day it was, nor did they know the month, nor the time, and it almost bothered them. Just a bit. And only because they were waiting for their potion to explode or last a day, and the only thing they could do in that time was sleep, and if they slept, Lancer would win. 

They could hear him now, pattering away in the kitchen, preparing his argument for why they should lie down and get some rest. It felt like routine now, and they didn’t like it. Imagine, Saran Secada, the person who had pushed others away for so long, falling into a routine with someone else, even if they were a replica of someone who had died long ago. They hated how normal it felt, how . . . comfortable even. And they didn’t like it one bit. Not at all. 

“Food is ready,” Lancer said, popping his head through the door, watching the potion in it’s little box. “I would prefer you not to be in here if that explodes.”

“The box is bulletproof.” 

“Just to be on the safe side.”

Saran rolled their eyes, but left their vigil anyway. Once again, the feeling of normalcy settled on their shoulders, and they scowled. Somehow, someway, Lacer had gotten under their skin, and they weren’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

. . .

Diarmuid watched as Saran aggressively attacked their food, brows furrowed, scowling slightly. They looked like they were thinking hard about something, something important and not particularly pleasant. Which meant they couldn’t be thinking about potions. That thought made him hesitate, if not potions, then what? What were they thinking about?

Saran glanced at him, their furrowed brows unraveling enough to send him a curious, if not overly suspicious look. “What?”

Diarmuid shrugged, “Just thinking.”

“About what.”

“I was trying to figure out what you were thinking about, because whatever it is, I’m pretty sure it's not potion related.” He raised an eyebrow. “Am I correct?”

Saran stared at him for a couple seconds longer, then set their fork down. “Is this not weird?”

He blinked, suddenly lost. “Is what not weird?”

“This,” they gestured violently, at him, at themself, at their lab and the waiting potion, at the kitchen and the couch and the tablet and the half solved game of Solitaire. “It’s weird.”

Diarmuid tipped his head back and considered. Yes, in the context of a Holy Grail War, it was weird. In the context of Saran’s life, it was also weird. But for him? He hadn’t thought about that, about whether he considered this weird or not. Saran was, something, no longer an acquaintance, probably a friend. At least he considered them a friend, although he doubted the thought had ever crossed their mind. And in his life, he’d helped his friends, his comrades in arms, with whatever they needed. So no, it wasn’t overly weird, but still . . . “Just a bit.”

They snorted. “Just a bit my ass. It’s really weird.”

“Is that what has been bothering you?”

Saran groaned, “What gave you that idea?”

“The scowl,” he sent them a quick smile, “cheer up, in six months you won’t have to worry about it being weird.” Because it would be over, this bit of peace, the break before the storm began to rage.

“Yeah.” Saran said, in an odd tone of voice, and Diarmuid broke out of his thoughts to look at them. The frown on their lips, the darkness in their teal eyes. It was an odd look, almost introspective, and Diarmuid couldn’t help but be surprised. Saran focused so much on their potions, it was startling to see them focus on something different, especially if that thing was themself. He sighed, shaking his head slightly, opened his mouth to speak, but Saran interrupted him again. “Do you have any semblance of a plan?” 

Distractions, they were searching for a distraction. So he gave them one, shrugging nonchalantly, even as a bud of excitement burst in his chest. He didn’t crave battle like some of the Fionna had, but he enjoyed it, took pride in standing up to others as strong or stronger than him. “Normally, nobody would have been summoned this early, and in the next few months, the only ones who are more likely to show up will be Assassin and Caster. The others would be summoned as late as possible, so their true names have less of a chance of being discovered.” He glanced at them, curious as to whether or not they were paying attention, but they were, teal eyes focused on him, so he continued. “Normally, I would go out early, get a lay of the land and figure out the most advantageous places for battle. Then I would lure my opponent there, and we would have our duel. The real dangers though, aren’t the Servants, though we are powerful in our own rights. It is our Masters.” He hesitated, then continued, “I guess you could say we are like guns, and what we do depends on how our Masters use us.”

“But you’re not a gun,” Saran argued, “you think. Guns don’t think.”

He shrugged again, “A gun is a tool, and so is a Servant. I am a knight, and a knight is loyal to his lord.” He didn’t add ‘always’, although it was at the tip of his tongue, begging to be said. He wanted to stay loyal this time, he swore he would . . . but sometimes circumstances twisted and changed. He just hoped they wouldn’t this time, hoped he would be able to follow his chosen path. “So, although it can be helpful to know how a Servant thinks, it is more important to know how the Master thinks.” Which was why those two whom his lord did not know were so dangerous. There was no info on them, nothing he could base a plan on or try to figure out. They were blanks, and he had to plan around them the best he could. “Nor can I plan for an individual’s fighting style,” he continued, “because I do not know that fighting style until we face in battle.”

“What I’m hearing here is that you’re winging it.”

Diarmuid glared at them, and they sent him a smirk in return. Well, at least they had been broken out of their funk. “No, I am saying that I will lure them out, and learn their fighting styles when we clash in battle. This will also allow me to understand how their Master thinks. Lure them out, learn their style, learn their name. And that is how this War will be won.”

Saran stared at him, “If you say so, because it still sounds like you’re winging it.”

“Now you’re just attempting to poke fun at me.”

They blinked, “Am not, I’m just pointing out the obvious.” Then they grabbed their fork and started shoveling food into their mouth, effectively ending the conversation. And Diarmuid watched them do so, feeling his lips twitch slightly in amusement, before he shook his head and turned back to his game of Solitaire.

. . .

Poking fun, honestly, Saran didn’t poke fun at people. They didn’t. They scowled at their book, an hour later, and Lancer’s words refused to dissipate from their mind. Poke fun. Poke fun suggested they knew Lancer well enough to do that. Poke fun suggested that they were comfortable around Lancer. Did they? Were they? Sure, they had a routine now, they couldn’t argue with that, and Lancer no longer annoyed them, but were they comfortable with him? Did they know him well enough to poke fun?

It was bothering them, eating at their mind, refusing to go away. With a sigh, they closed the tablet, set it aside, and grabbed their notebook, thumbing through the pages, scanning the notes and equations and ideas, hoping one would grab their attention. Nothing. Nothing at all. This hadn’t happened in forever, at least in the last eight years. This was bad, this was really bad, disastrously bad. They closed their notebook with a snap, and twisted so they could stare at the potion.

It sat there, innocent in it’s box, and for the briefest of seconds, Saran actually hoped it would explode.

They groaned and set their notebook down, flopping back onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. Perhaps they were tired, that might explain it, although they didn’t feel tired. They didn’t feel tired at all. But sleep, sleep might help. They made a face, disgusted with themself, sleep might help. What were they thinking? 

“Are you okay?” Lancers voice.

Saran didn’t get up to look at him, just rolled over onto their side and glared at the weave of the fabric on the couch. “I’m fine.” They didn’t sound fine, they sounded angry, and they could tell with ease that Lancer wasn’t going to buy it. But, whatever, they were done caring. They closed their eyes and drifted off.

. . .

Saran woke a day later, feeling better about, well, everything really. They pushed themself off the couch, heading towards the bathroom. “Did it explode?”

“Nope,” Lancer said, “I assume you’ll be wanting to test it.”

“Yeah,” a few minutes later they can back, scrubbing their face with their gloves. “I’ll need to run two tests, one with intent, one without, that way I can figure out whether or not it’s like the fear gas.” They yawned, jaw clicking, and blinked rapidly. Then they scrubbed their face again. “I’m forgetting something.”

“You are,” Lancer shot them a brief smile, “a please.”

Saran scowled at him, but their heart wasn’t in it. Stupid polite expressions. Who cared? Not them. “Please.”

“I’ll be happy too,” this time, the smile was more lasting.

Saran narrowed their eyes. “What, no food?” He had a trick up his sleeve, they knew he had to have a trick up his sleeve.

He chuckled, and moved aside so Saran could see the customary plate of food. “A lighter breakfast today, I think. I figured you would only snack this morning.” Saran stared at him a couple seconds longer, then, mumbling indistinguishably, they headed to the lab. “Was I right?” There was a thread of amusement in his voice, making it sound light and playful, different then normal but not horribly different. 

“Fuck off.” Saran grumbled, coming back with the potion.

“I can’t if you want to test that.”

“Someone’s chipper today,” Saran grumbled, flicking open the cap. “Hold still.” He raised an eyebrow, “Please.” He nodded, smiling, and Saran dunked a finger in a dashed a bit across his nose, keeping their mind carefully blank. The no intent test had to happen first, just in case of contamination. 

Lancer recoiled, wrinkled his nose. “Was that necessary?”

“Payback,” Saran answered, capping the potion and reaching out to pull the plate of food towards them.

Lancer rolled his eyes. “Fine then,” he moved, a whoosh of air, and when Saran twisted to look, the door was swinging shut. 

. . .

Diarmuid came back an hour later, slipping through the door in spirit form. Saran was balanced on the counter, legs swinging, notebook open on their lap and pencil between their fingers. The plate of food lay half eaten beside them, which meant he’d been right. Good. 

They looked up when he appeared, teal eyes bright and sharp. “Results?” He waited a beat and they sighed, “Results, please?” The impatience and sarcasm in their tone would have scared away anyone else, but by now, Diarmuid was used to it.

“A minor reaction, uncomfortableness mainly. But nothing beyond that.” And no love stricken maids either, he’d made sure to cover his cheek with his hand before any wandering eyes could find the love spot.

Saran hissed through their teeth. “Not as strong then, I guess we’ll have to move on to the next one. Wipe your nose, and get back here. We’ve got another trial to run.”

Diarmuid raised an eyebrow, “Are you going to put it on my nose again?”

“No.”

“Good.” 

A few seconds later, he was before them, their face screwed up in concentration as their gloved fingers swept past his forehead, leaving a tingling feeling in their wake. “There we go. And make sure not to come back until the reactions stop.”

He stepped back, “I know.”

“And Lancer?”

“Yes?”

“. . . Thanks.”


	20. Plot Had to Come Eventually

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello wonderful people! First off, I would like to thank you for all your comments and kudos! They are the best! Second off and completely unrelated, I had no idea it would take this long and we aren't even to the Holy Grail War yet. *horrified screeching* So what I'm saying is, this is going to be one lllloooonnnnggg fic. Also, I apologize for the people who came for CasCu and Mordred, I didn't expect it to take this long. Finally, I hope you enjoy this next chapter and have a wonderful day!

Four months passed by in a flash, days blurring together, barely indistinguishable from one another. Diarmuid cooked, played solitaire, read, dragged Saran away from explosions, forced them to get some rest, reminded them that manners existed and should be used. Saran, in turn, focused on the mana and mana boost potions, juggling successes and failures as if it was nothing, occasionally becoming sidetracked about any other idea that popped into their mind. Life had taken a pace unbothered by the rest of the world, each day the same, except for slight variations and occasionally notable occurrences.

The Intimidation potion lasted five hours, and the reactions ranged from general unease to people stuttering to outright avoiding the user.

Saran had another nightmare, the same one of fire and flames and hospitalization.

Diarmuid received a file on the Masters known, their strengths and their weaknesses and their addresses. He played with plans, picking up some and discarding others, tried to figure out who would summon whom according to the information known. He even tested out Saran’s tablet as a research device, but there wasn’t much he could find.

Once, Saran actually made it to the couch before passing out. Which would have been progress if Diarmuid hadn’t already been sitting there. To be fair to Saran, they had probably forgotten he was there again. So in the end, Saran ended up passing out on him.

That had been an experience.

But beyond those little happenstances, nothing out of the ordinary happened. No early summoned Servants knocking on doors, trying to do reconnaissance. Just the two of them, existing in a small bubble of peace, if anything that had regular explosions could be called peaceful. And it existed that way, until, finally, Diarmuid got a message from his lord.

. . .

_ “Lancer.”  _

Diarmuid looked up from his book, already closing the tablet and pushing himself up. Saran was in the lab, smashing stones into powder.  _ “Yes, my lord?” _ _   
_ _ “Meet me in my office.” _

_ “Of course, my lord.”  _ He set the book down and turned to Saran. Their hair was tangled and matted as normal, their face screwed up in concentration, teal eyes shining from behind their safety glasses, mortar held in their hand as they judged their strike. “Saran,” a noise that might have been confirmation, “my lord requires my presence.”

“And your point is?” 

He rolled his eyes, “Try not to blow up the lab while I’m gone.”

They snorted slightly, “Whatever.”

A sigh and an eye roll, then Diarmuid shifted into spirit form, leaving them to their work. He slipped through the halls, watching people walk by, doing their jobs, eyeing the windows and the world outside until he coalesced in his Master’s office, knee on the ground, fist of his chest. “My lord,” he murmured, eyes focused on the ground in front of him.

“Ah, Lancer,” the shuffle of papers, “what do you make of the information I sent you? I’m sure you’ve had adequate time to look it over.”

“I have, my lord,” he hesitated, then continued, “if I may, it is not enough information. From what I have gathered, the Tohsakas and Matous have done much to keep information on their Masters a secret, and the Einzbern Master is already a blank slate because of her origins. The Clocktower Mage, Mel Pearce, is just as secretive.”

“My thoughts exactly, Lancer.” Diarmuid could hear his smile in his voice, “What if I told you there was a way to gather information on these Masters? It is not without its dangers, of course, but I believe that it could work.”

“Then I am at your service, my lord. But my lord, what is this plan?” He knew it couldn’t be to send him out, his Master wanted him to guard Saran, but he wouldn’t have called for Diarmuid if he wasn’t needed for some reason.

“What is the best way to trap a mage into revealing information about themself?” His lord asked, coldly amused, “It is to give them a bait they cannot refuse. Later today, I am sending invitations to all the known Masters, and many I have located who are possible candidates for the command seals. In two weeks, I will host a formal gathering for these people, of course the Einzberns, Tohsakas, and Matous have to appear themselves, etiquette demands they do, and I believe this Mel Pierce will appear as well. It will give us the perfect opportunity to figure out their plans, their strengths and weaknesses, mentally if not magically.”

Diarmuid looked up in shock, into the eyes of his calculating Master. He looked smug, proud of this plan, and Diarmuid wasn’t sure if it was an act of pure folly or pure genius. He was right, none of the other Masters would dare pass this chance up, but . . . “My lord, forgive me, but what if one of the other Masters tries to take you out during the gathering?”

“That is why you’ll be there.”

“Which will risk my identity becoming known, and if the others find out that you have summoned a Servant so early -” He bit his tongue, if this was his Master’s plan, then he should go with it, no arguments. But still, he didn’t like it.

“Of course,” he said, taking a sip of his drink, “those are very important factors that need to be considered.” He set the cup down, twined his fingers together, smiled thinly. “Which is why I propose a false lead, perhaps even several.” 

A false lead?

And then realization hit him, sharp and sudden, and Diarmuid’s breath whooshed out of his chest as if he had been punched. His lord wouldn’t, surely not. But . . . strategically thinking, it made sense. But still, he couldn’t . . . no, he was thinking the wrong thing. He had to be thinking the wrong thing!

“I see you’ve reached the same conclusion I have,” a soft chuckle, “I cannot hide the fact that I am a Master, but I can hide the fact that you are my Servant. And there is one you are already sworn to protect.”

“I do not think they would agree to this, my lord.” His voice sounded tinny to his ears, far away and disbelieving. This couldn’t be happening, this couldn’t be. He was dreaming, or something, but his knee against the ground felt all too real, the fist against his chest too solid. This was reality, he was not mishearing things, this . . . this was bad.

“Probably not,” his Master admitted, “but I have my ways.”

. . .

Saran stumbled out of the lab, pushing their hair back from their eyes, scrubbing at the smoke streaks that ran along their cheeks. Lancer had said no explosions, but he had to have known it was a false hope. He’d watched them long enough to know which potion they were working on today. They poured another cup of coffee, humming contendely, before downing the thing, hot and scalding and bitter, a boost of adrenaline to their system. God they needed it, what was this, day four despite Lancer’s attempts? Hah, they’d won this round.

They set the cup down, walked back to their lab, and got to work again, lost in the flow when the door opened. It was odd, almost, because when Lancer left he normally left in spirit form, and when he returned, he didn’t use the door. But eh, whatever, they didn’t really feel like looking into it, besides they had more important things to focus on, like the potion, boiling and steaming and bubbling before them. Then, a second set of footsteps, an oddly familiar voice, “Secada, you look to be doing well.”

For a second, they couldn’t place it, that voice, and they weren’t going to attempt to either. They spared enough time for a brisk, “Busy. Go away,” before twisting the temp knob on one of the Bunsen burners, bringing the flames down low. They felt the energy in the air shift, brushing against their scars, nesting under their skin, building, building.

“I can’t,” the voice said, “as I own this place. Can you not spare a moment to talk?”

Oh, it was Lord who-cared-what-his-name-was-certainly-not-Saran. “Can’t. Like I said, I'm busy.” They paused, flicking a vial, feeling the energy curl and lessen, “So fuck off, unless you want the house to blow up.”

A chuckle, a hollow, empty one, “Really, it will only take ten minutes.”

Saran turned to glare at him, feeling the whispers playing across their skin. Lord What's-his-name looked smug and sure of himself while Lancer, standing behind him, looked . . . apologetic. Saran didn’t like seeing Lancer look apologetic, because it often meant he was going to apologize for something he hadn’t done.

Except in the broken coffee pot incident, but there was no proof he hadn’t broken the coffee pot on accident.

So no, they didn’t like seeing Lancer look apologetic, and they didn’t like the fact that he looked worried either, and they didn’t like Lord Who-cares smug mug either. There was only one conclusion they could reach, Lord Forgettable had thought up of something that Lancer didn’t like and involved them in some way. Logically, they should tell him to fuck off again, and then maybe blow up the potion on principle. But . . . Saran turned from them, reached out, and twisted a pipe, hard. The energy in the room froze, stalling, outwardly, the process continued, but the true essence of the potion had been halted, a gear thrown in the works. They turned back around, arms crossed over their chest, “You have five minutes. Otherwise, it won’t be just the house that blows.”

Lancer’s lip twitched, amusement, a grimace, a snide remark shoved to the back of his mind? Saran didn’t know, and right now, they weren’t focused on him, they were focused on Lord Whatever, and at his rapidly paling face. “How generous of you to grant me time,” and perhaps there was the briefest thread of anger in that voice, but Saran didn’t care enough to look for it if it even existed, “In two weeks, I am hosting a gathering. I would like for you to go.”

“No.” 

A raised eyebrow, “Are you not going to give me time to explain myself?”

“No,” Saran tapped an impatient finger against their arm, “Because frankly, I don’t care. I’m paid for potions, not gatherings. So no.”

“Lancer will be coming with me,” he said, “and to throw the scent off, we need someone to play his false Master. He is already assigned to your protection, it is natural for him to stick by your side. It will only be a few hours long, and of course, I will pay you for your troubles.”

“No.”

“You are on my payroll,” the briefest flash of frustration, “if I wish you to do this, you shall.” It was a barely concealed threat, but Saran wasn’t paying attention, the energy in the room was building again, straining and straining. They wondered if he even felt it at all, if he knew the fact that every wasted word took them closer to disaster.

They leaned back, eased the tube back a bit. “Let’s make this clear. You pay me for potions, not to socialize. If you think you can change the rules of this game, then so can I. You force me to do anything I don’t want you to do, and I blow this place sky high, and leave without a backwards glance. Your little ploy for the Holy Grail War will be ruined, and you’ll have to think up a new plan with no base and no supplies.” 

They glanced at Lancer, not sure why they did so. He looked . . . blank, and Saran hated it. Hated the forced blankness that had wiped away the apologetic and worried look. It made their skin crawl, their insides twist. They wanted his normal smirk back, not whatever this was, hiding whatever he felt. 

Lord . . . Alexander, that was his name, took a deep breath. “Is there anything I can do to convince you to go of your own violation?”

No, never. Speak with people, be stuck with them in an enclosed space for a long period of time? Not on their life. They glanced at Lancer again, and found themselves speaking. “I am in need of new supplies, and not the shit that you gave me. That’s stuff useless. I do this, and I get to go on a supply run.” Actually, that could work. They could already feel the eagerness slip inside their bones, buzzing. A supply run. They could get what they needed for the Undetectability potion, stock up their dwindling supplies, see what else struck their fancy. “Also, I am not wearing a dress.” Then they spun around, flicking vials and twisting tubes, trying to ease the battering tide on their mind. Something popped, bilious smoke blasted through, dark and shimmery, a classic side effect of holding the potion back like this. They had no more time for mages and their politics, they were walking the knife’s edge now, teetering one way then another as they struggled with their creation.

. . .

Diarmuid watched his lord turn, a faint smirk on his face, nod in his direction, then leave, his message clear. He’d won that round, or at least, he believed he did, but Diarmuid knew better. He let out a breath soon after the door snapped shut, reaching back to steady himself on the couch. He could see Saran, flitting from tube to vial to burner and back again, their face twisted in concentration, as smoke billowed from one of the joints of their contraption. He wanted to leap in, to drag them out, just in case the smoke was dangerous, but . . . they had gone through this potion multiple times, they knew what was dangerous and what was not.

Diarmuid eased himself onto the couch, trying to ignore the way his hands were shaking. He could still see them in his mind, his lord and Saran, facing each other, the bullet proof glass glinting between them. He, his brushed hair and wrinkle free suit, his clear face and controlled expression. They, with their tangled lions mane, smoke and ash dotting their cheeks like war paint, shadows clinging beneath their eyes, their clothes dirty and burnt, but their eyes gleaming fiercely despite it all. A classic mage versus a walking disaster.

And he . . . and Diarmuid hadn’t known what to do.

So he’d just stood there, wrestling with himself. His Master was his lord, by all rights he should have followed every order, should have supported him, but Saran was his friend, and he hated the idea of putting them in a situation where they would be stared at by powerful mages, all looking at them like they were an enemy. And his lord had . . . threatened them, although he hadn’t said anything overt, the implications were there. And Saran had threatened him back, suggested they walk away without looking back, after causing as much destruction as possible. And that . . .

That had hurt. 

Because Diarmuid knew Saran, if they said they would blow up this house before leaving, would wreck his lord's plans without care, then they would. They knew Diarmuid was focused on winning for his lord, and they had still simply thrown the fact out there that they didn’t care about the Holy Grail War, that they could leave at any time. And it hurt. It hurt alot. And what he couldn’t reason out was why they didn’t.

They had the potion right there, behind them, ready to blow. But they hadn’t. They had agreed, they had agreed. They had agre -

Something poked his cheek, and Diamruid turned to stare at Saran. They were leaning over the back of the couch, the expression on their face unreadable, staring at him, eyes too sharp and bright for someone who’d been awake for four days and counting. “You okay?” 

“I’m sorry,” he said instead, because he was not okay and he did not want to bring that up, “if I had known he was going to do that . . .”

Saran scowled at him, irritation flashing across their face. “Don’t apologize, you couldn’t have stopped him even if you knew.” Then their face brightened, “besides, I’m getting something out of it anyway.”

“Yeah,” a shaky laugh, “Your shopping trip. To go through with this plan for a supplies run.” He shook his head, felt a small smile curl across his lips despite it a;;. “You really are something, aren’t you?”

“Hey, supplies are important, really fucking important.” The look on their face faded, and for a moment they watched him, inscrutable, “Besides, I didn’t do it for the supplies.” Then they were pushing off the couch, turning back to the lab, where their potion still frothed and foamed, to where the smoke was slowly cleaning out of the room, leaving Diarmuid to reel at the implications of their words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative ending sentence: Diarmuid.xe has stopped working.


	21. Truly, the Coffee Was the Real Victim Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.) I'm sorry this was supposed to be up yesterday but things happened, so here's a extra long chapter to make up for it! B.) Thank you all for your comments and kudos, you people are the best! C.) Apparently there was some confusion on what Saran meant last chapter, all I'm going to say is you guys gave them way too much credit. D.) Hope you enjoy this chapter and have an absolutely lovely day!

“Lancer,” Saran said, gritting their teeth. “My coffee.”

Lancer raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter, coffee pot held high above his head, a serious expression on his face. “Saran,” he parroted back, “this is day five. You have a week before you attend the gathering. You need sleep.”

Saran stared at him, eye twitching. Clever bastard had waited until they were finished with their potion before pulling this trick, and Saran was swaying on their feet now, two minutes from blackout. They needed their coffee. They needed their coffee now. “Like hell do I need sleep. Give me my coffee!”

“Saran, I’m not allowing you to go to a gathering of mages without sleep.”

“The gathering is a week away!”

“And you will sleep every night of that week. No staying awake for three days and sleeping for two, actually sleeping every night. At least eight hours of sleep per day. Like you’re supposed to have. Starting now.” 

Saran stared at the coffee pot in his hands, the curved glass glinting softly in the light, the nectar of the gods that was held within. The coffee pot was laughing at them. Laughing at them because it knew what their response would be. Sleep? Every night? That would waste so much time that could be used for better things! Like their potions. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” He said, a bit smugly, “You said you weren’t going through this for your supply run. Which means you’re doing it for me. Still no coffee.”

Saran growled in frustration. “I could be doing it for the money.”

“Sure you could.” He said cheerfully. Ugh! He was so annoying, and Saran wasn’t awake enough to deal with that cheerful smile, or the fact that they might have been going through this stupid plan for Lancer’s sake because they hadn’t liked seeing his carefully blank face or his apologetic one. But whatever! That wasn’t important. What was important was the fact that they needed their coffee, right now, otherwise they would blackout. They could already see the spots dancing at the edges of their vision, trying to claim it. Lancer must have seen something on their face, because his eyes softened slightly. “Saran, if you go into that gathering as sleep deprived as you normally are, you will be eaten alive. So please, don’t argue with me on this one. You know I’m right.”

And that was the frustrating bit, because he was right. Saran didn’t have much experience with mages beyond brief meetings to sell their potions, but they knew that going into a gathering full of them in their normal state was a horrible idea. Probably their worst idea yet. But they would lose so much time! Then again, they were also losing time by going to the stupid gathering! It was all so frustrating! They had to think of the supply run, of what they would gather, the endless possibilities at their fingertips. They had to focus on that. Not on their poor coffee and all the wasted hours that could be put to better use. “Fine.” They gritted out. “You win. I will go to sleep.”

“Good,” Lancer grinned, “Then I’ll just pour this down the sink.”

Saran almost moaned. The poor coffee, what had it done to deserve Lancer’s wrath? Absolutely nothing. It was a tragedy, the truest of tragedies. Whatever, it was too late to stop him now. They trudged over to the couch and fell face first into the cushions, darkness already there to claim them.

. . .

Diarmuid took the two garment bags with a ‘thank you’ and closed the door. Saran was currently passed out on the couch, face buried in a pillow, arm trapped beneath them, legs twisted in a tangle. Somehow, and he wasn’t sure how they’d managed this, they’d adapted well to the sleeping every night thing. He didn’t expect it to last, as soon as the gathering was done, it would be business as normal.

But for today, well, later today, it would not be business as normal.

He tried, for a second, to imagine Saran in a gathering of mages, and winced. This, this was not going to be good. He glanced at the clock, a couple hours, maybe four. He would go ahead and get dressed, then he would wake Saran up. Which begged the question, which bag was his? He held up the two bags, looked at the semi-transparent plastic, the suits within. He shrugged, looped the larger bag over his arm, and set the other on the counter.

. . .

Diarmuid had to hand it to his lord, the clothes fit perfectly. He wasn’t sure how his lord had guessed his size correctly, and he wasn’t going to attempt to either. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, and smiled. A light green-ish grey button up, silky to the touch, a darker green vest with gold buttons, black slacks and a black jacket with dark green lining. He looked good, although the modern clothes felt odd, not unpleasant, just odd. He adjusted the line of the vest and messed with the cuffs. These all made sense for a formal gathering, the last part, sitting innocently on the bathroom counter, not so much.

He picked up the glasses, the woven gold frames, cool to the touch. He wasn’t quite sure why he needed them, because they couldn’t possibly be to hide his identity. Glasses wouldn't do that. However, he gazed at the note that had been left with them, at the handwriting so much more easier to read then Saran’s chicken scratch.  _ Lancer, I believe you will find these useful.  _ If his lord was certain, then he would wear them. 

He slipped them on.

Nothing.

The bathroom looked as bathrooms normally do.

He shook his head slightly, and stepped out, closing the door softly behind him. He glanced around, the kitchen area was normal, there was something different about Saran’s lab, although it was hard to tell with the bullet proof glass between him and it. And Saran . . .

His breath caught in his throat.

Saran lay on the couch, still in their awkward tangle of limbs, hair sticking every which way, breath even and slow, but they were covered in something, something that glittered in the air, tracing heavier paths above where their veins must have been, almost a color, not quite. It hung about them, this almost color, shifting, pulsing lazily with each breath they took, changing from second to second.

Mana.

He was seeing mana.   
He took the glasses off, examined them carefully. The glass was clear, no evidence of scratches or runes, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. The gold frames were different though, runes running down the sides, hidden by the weave. He glanced at Saran again. Nothing. No intangible shimmer clinging to their form, no almost colors twisting in the air, there then not. He slipped the glasses on again, felt the press against his nose and the sides of his face, and there they were. A glitter in the air, it wasn’t much, barely present, but it was there, and it told him what he already knew. 

Saran barely had any mana to call their own, just a smidgen more then the average person if he was going to guess. The shimmer, the colors, it must be stronger around more powerful mages. This, this would be useful. But he had one more thing to test out.

He walked into the lab, closing the door behind him, and he flinched away from the brilliance. Because it was bright, almost too bright. Every smudge on the walls, every scorch mark on the table, every remnant of Saran’s experiments and explosions practically glowed, colors stronger, more present. A flash of fuchsia, a glint of red as dark as blood, something clear with the faintest tint of blue. The lab was saturated, each corner swathed in the shimmer, replacing the shadows that would normally gather. The recently cleaned tubes and supplies glowed faintly white. The potion, a mana boost if he wasn’t mistaken, which had previously looked clear to his eyes, pulsed a deep crimson. He moved over to the cabinet where they kept their completed potions, opened the doors up, only to shut them just as quickly. He’d barely gotten a glimpse, yet it had been enough. If the lab was saturated, the cabinet was flooded, each pool of mana burning brightly in a container that suddenly seemed too fragile.

Diarmuid turned to stare at Saran, to where they lay with barely a shimmer clinging to their skin, then glanced at their glowing lab again. “Holy shit,” he breathed, the words barely a whisper in the air, heavy in the silence of the room. It was clear now, so painfully clear, why their potions were so hard to create. 

Something like this should have been impossible. 

. . .

Saran was lured from slumber with the smell of breakfast. They didn’t want to get up. What would be the point? Lancer wouldn’t let them make a potion before the gathering, and who cared about a group of mages. A pride of mages? A murder of mages. Whatever. They rolled, attempting to bury their face in their pillow or some corner of darkness, only to fall off the couch instead. Fine, the floor was fine, nice and cold against their cheek. They would sleep here. 

“Saran,” a vaguely amused voice, and they groaned. A touch on their shoulder, feather light, barely felt through their lab coat “Come on, get up.”

“Not worth it.” They grumbled against the ground, not opening their eyes.

Lancer sighed, “Well, if you’re not going to get up, then I guess I can pour your coffee down the sink.”

Saran scrambled to their feet, “Like hell you will. No more coffee murder. Give me.”

Lancer laughed, and passed them a cup. They grabbed it, feeling the warmth through their gloves, the steam as it hit their face. Yes, coffee, good old coffee. The most important thing in the world next to potions. Mmmm. “Breakfast is ready.” 

“Mhm.”

“You are going to have to take a shower after it.”

“Mhm.”

“My lord sent the suits.”

“Mhm?” Saran finished draining the cup, stared at the empty bottom. “Damn. I was hoping he’d forget.”

Lancer chuckled, “No such luck, come on.”

Saran rolled their eyes, prayed to whatever might be listening for patience, or even better, a tsunami or something so they didn’t have to attend, passed the cup to Lancer, then grabbed the plate and started eating. “Did you get a suit too?”

“Yes,” he nodded to the empty garment bag that lay on the counter beside the full one as he walked into the lab to wash the cup. Saran glanced at him. He didn’t look like he was wearing a suit, he looked like he was wearing his armor. He caught their gaze, turned on the faucet, “I switched to my gear so it wouldn’t get wrinkled or dirty.” 

Ah, that explained things. “Perhaps,” they said thoughtfully, “I can go in looking like I was caught in an explosion.” So they could work on their potion beforehand.

“No, Saran.” Lancer said in a tired voice.

“Fine.” They returned to their food, scowling at their meal. They weren’t getting out of this, that was painfully clear, so how the hell were they going to survive this? They imagined the masses of people, all crowding around them, blank faces and ghastly smiles and glittering eyes and boring conversations, and shuddered. Who needed horror movies? The most horrifying things could be found right outside their door. “I hate this.”

“I know,” Lancer walked back in, setting the cup on the counter, “I don’t like it either, but we need more information then we have currently. Who knows what we’ll encounter, what we’ll learn.” He hesitated, leaned against the counter, watched them with his sharp eyes. “Saran, if you don’t mind me asking, you, your potions,” he floundered, then settled on a single word, “How?”

They looked up from their meal, “How what?”

Lancer sighed, “My lord sent glasses with my suit, they let me see the mana in things. You, you don’t have a lot, but when I look at your potions with the glasses, I’m almost blinded. That shouldn’t be possible.”

Saran scraped the last bit of eggs onto their fork, chewed, then swallowed, “Lancer, I told you this already,” they said, annoyed. They hated repeating themself, hated it so much. “It’s not my mana, it’s the mana in other objects. Fear, power, strength, yada yada. Everything has something connected to it, simple as that.”

“But I’ve seen you make the potions, and the amount you use versus the amount you get doesn't match up. You can’t get something from nothing.”

Saran grinned at him, “You can’t, that’s why it’s impossible, that’s why only I can do this.”

He raised an eyebrow, “That explains nothing.”

What did he want them to say? That yes, it was impossible, that yes, it shouldn’t happen, but Saran’s life was a jumble of impossibilities. The portions were impossible, yes, but pulling mana from normal objects should have been impossible too. “Nothing’s impossible Lancer. Everything has loopholes. You just have to find them and exploit them. The world will try to stop you, but you can’t let it,” they grinned again, wider, more challenging, “I do this because I can. I do this because I want to. I do this because it shouldn’t be possible, but somehow, I’ve made it so. It took a long time to find out the basis, it takes a long time to find out the trick of each potion, but it’s worth it.” Every time, it was worth it. They stood, stretched, hearing their back crack. “Anyway, I’m off to take my shower. You have fun trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing that others can’t.”

“Thanks,” he said, dryly. “Don’t forget your suit.”

“Urg. Fine.”

. . .

Diarmuid slipped the glasses on again and walked back into Saran’s lab. It hurt to look at, but he needed to get used to the pain. The gathering would probably be just as bad. He looked at the potions again, pulling different ones out and examining them individually instead of all at once. Mana boost was crimson, their normal Mana potion was a cool green, the Fear potion was a void of darkness, the Intimidation potion a dark purple. He sighed and put them back, curious now. He looked through the supply cabinet, the glows were there, just not as strong. Grey for fear, red for power, each vial of liquid, clear without the glasses, glowed faintly. He reached the vials labeled amplification, and winced. These were brighter, burning hot with an opalescent iridescence. 

This, this had to be part of it.

He set the vials back on their shelf, leaned against the counter, stared out at the lab. Almost a year he’d spent here, watching Saran juggle their impossibilities and still claim victory. Failures resulted in explosions. Sometimes success relied on explosions. But how much did he really know about the process? He knew Saran could sense the mana in objects, could drain that mana and make it take another shape. He knew they used little bits of that mana and stones to create potions that held so much mana it was hard to look at. Something from nothing. A large amount from a small amount. There had to be something in the process that made it possible, and Saran had found it. 

He shook his head and smiled faintly. Of course they had, it was Saran, after all. He wouldn’t put anything past him.

A door opened, and Diarmuid twisted to see Saran stepping out of the bathroom, scowling, adjusting their jacket. “I hate suits. I hate dressing up. You are so lucky I need that supply run.” They caught his gaze, scowled harder. “What?”

The first time Diarmuid had seen Saran, they’d been wearing a suit. But this was different. That suit had been ill fitting, rented out for the hour or so, and Saran had been a mess of tangled hair and bags under their eyes. They had looked so wrong in the suit, a creature of dark rooms and sleepless nights, unused to the real world. They still looked wrong in a suit, but this one fit better, their size instead of a close approximation. The colors fit better as well, the jacket a slate gray with teal embroidery, a cream undershirt, tailored slacks. But it wasn’t just the suit that was different, it was them as well. A week plus of regular sleep had removed all but the deepest shadows from under their eyes, had taken away the tinge of exhaustion from their skin and returned a healthy glow in its place. Their hair was still a mess as always, half dry, and he knew that they couldn’t have possibly brushed it completely, but it was the first time he’d seen them resemble anything that wasn’t a recently reanimated corpse. Like this, rested and healthy, they actually looked . . . nice. 

“Lancer,” Saran snapped, teal eyes flashing, “What is it?”

Diarmuid decided that this was a horrible time to realize that Saran was attractive, and quickly buried the revelation deep where he hoped he would never have to encounter it again. The fact that his glasses were on, and he could see their mana shifting and glittering in the air didn’t help at all. “Ah - my apologies, I didn't mean to stare. You just, you look different, that's all.” He glanced away, suddenly captivated by a streak of ash on the countertop, rubbing at it with his fingers.

“I knew I looked ridiculous,” Saran said, with an air of victory. “Good. That means I can go in my lab coat.”

Diarmuid’s head jerked up, “You don’t look ridiculous.”

They were already halfway to the bathroom, probably to change back into their normal clothes. They hesitated, frowning, “I don’t?”

“Well, since your hair is only halfway brushed, you give it a decent shot. But still, no, you don’t.”

“Oh,” they hesitated, then stopped, running a hand through their hair. “If you say so. I certainly feel ridiculous.” They scowled again. “It’s just, ugh.”

“Not you?” He offered.

“Not me.” They agreed.

And it was true, they looked good, but it wasn’t them. Saran was not meant for parties and gatherings of people. Saran was meant for lab work, meant for potions and experiments and what they loved. And they didn’t love gatherings or social events or dressing up. No, they most certainly did not. 

“Whelp,” Saran said, tugging at their gloves. They were different from their lab gloves, thinner, shining in the light. He wondered if they were silk, if his lord had sent them with their suit like he’d sent Diarmuid’s glasses. “I guess we should get this over with.” They turned again, this time towards the door.

This was familiar territory, and he grabbed it with the desperation a drowning man does a lifesaver. He pushed off the counter, crossing his arms. “Saran, your hair is still a mess. You need to brush it.”

They turned on their heels, threw their hands up, exasperation lacing every word. “I did! Can’t you tell?”

Diarmuid knew what brushed hair looked like. It did not look like Saran’s hair. He rolled his eyes and uncrossed his arms. “Obviously you didn’t do it well enough. Sit down, I’ll do it.” They stared at him for a few seconds, and he raised an eyebrow in reply. “You aren’t leaving this room without brushed hair, Saran. Either you do it, or I’ll do it, and if we wait for you to do it, we won’t be leaving this room anytime soon.” 

“I’d been good with that.”

“Saran.” 

“Fine, fine.” They sat, scowling at nothing, and Diarmuid sighed and left to grab the brush.

. . .

Saran wasn’t sure when the last time they brushed their hair was. If it got too long, they hacked it off. Sometimes portions got burnt off. They’d just didn’t have the time to worry about their hair. Why should they? Who cared what their hair looked like or how tangled it was? The potions certainly didn’t. They certainly didn’t.

But Lancer’s unspoken argument was right, curse him. Saran was supposed to be pretending to be a Master. Masters were mages. Mages cared about their looks. So Saran had to make an effort. Sure, the suit was a good freaking effort, but it wasn’t enough. And they hated it. 

So they sat on the couch, face screwed up in annoyance and discomfort and Lancer carded the brush through their hair. They’d tugged their knees to their chest, arms wrapped around their legs, chin on their knees, glaring at the opposite wall. It wasn’t as if Lancer was bad at brushing hair or whatever. He had more patience than Saran did, took the time to work through the tangles, instead of just yanking the brush through the snarls. But still, it was the principle of the matter. “Are you going to give up anytime soon? I’m telling you, you can’t save it.”

He huffed a laugh. “You might be right. We’re lucky it’s still damp.”

“Could just cut it,” they suggested, hopeful.

“We could,” he agreed, “but this is a gathering of mages Saran, I don’t want to risk any of them getting any hairs that might have fallen on your suit if I did cut it.”

“Fine,” they groaned. They huffed a sigh, continued to glare at the wall, “Hey, Lancer . . . do you think this will work?”

He hesitated for a moment, then continued to brush. When his voice came, it was soft and quiet. “There is a decent chance that it will work. I am worried about how you will react to all the eyes on you, because there will be eyes on you, but your name is relatively hard to find. I’m certain that once my real Master is revealed you will be safe. And you have, effectively, disappeared off the face of the earth for almost the past year.”

“You’re worried about something.” Perhaps it was the tone in his voice, perhaps it was the way the brush shook slightly, but Saran knew he was worrying.

“I am worried that you will be placed in danger.” He said, smoothly. Not a lie because Lancer didn’t lie, but not the full truth either.

“Something beyond that.”

He hesitated again, and this time he did not continue brushing. “I am worried that my identity will be discovered.” Saran twisted slightly to watch him. He was frowning, a barely there frown, his amber eyes shadowed, one hand hovering over the mole over his cheek, the other gripping the brush tightly. “Most Heroic Spirits’s identities are in danger when their weapons are revealed or their noble phantasms are released. I am . . . somewhat of a special case. I have an identifying mark that, if any Master is familiar with Irish mythology, will reveal my identity. Along with the other troubles it will cause.”

Saran straightened, curious now. “Really? Like what?”

He made a face, “I’m cursed.” Saran stared at him and he sighed, tapped his mole, and explained. “Any woman who gazes upon this is cursed to fall in love with me.”

“Okay,” Saran could see the trouble with that, “but is it just women? What about lesbians? What about gay men? What about transgender females? What about transgender males? What about -”

“Saran,” he said, exasperated, “I can’t answer all those questions. In my time, it was just women. But you were not affected, so I’m no longer certain that is the case. However, no matter how you look at it, the curse will be a problem. Now turn back around so I can finish with your hair.”

Saran rolled their eyes and turned back around, and the rhythmic tugging on their hair started up again. A curse. Why did that sound faintly familiar? Whatever. And Lancer was right, it would be a problem. Saran was going to have enough people watching them because they were pretending to be a Master. If people started watching them because those people were lusting after Lancer, or even worse, started approaching them. Gah, Saran hated the very thought of being approached by anyone, much less lovestruck fools, they were barely going to survive this with just the mages. But lovestruck idiots as well? No way in hell were they going to deal with that. “Hold up, I need to grab something.”

Lancer stopped brushing. “And what do you need to grab, Saran?”

Saran didn’t reply, standing up and rushing to the bathroom, rooting around in the cabinets for a few seconds before coming out with a small tin. They returned to the couch, opening the tin, revealing pale cream. “Hold still so I can stick this on your face.”

Lancer raised his eyebrow and crossed his arms. “And what, Saran, is that?” There was a warning note in his voice, low and present under the words.

Saran scowled at him. He was really going to make them say it, wasn’t he? This day was the fucking worst and it had barely begun. “I’m pretty sure you’ve managed to figure out by now that I have scars. Surprise, surprise, they aren’t just on my hands, I do have some on my face.” They wrinkled their nose, sucked in a deep, calming breath. “They aren’t bad, but they are enough to garner attention, and you know how much I dislike attention.” And they’d hated seeing them every time they’d looked in the mirror, the faint discoloration from the burn marks, the slight slashes of silver from where glass had bit into their skin. As long as they didn’t have to look at the scars, they didn’t have to remember what caused them, they didn't have to think about the potential price their experiments might extract from them. “We put this on your mole, it’s covered up, no cursed ladies, no identity at risk. We’ll be good to go.”

He blinked at them, amber eyes wide, “Saran . . .” then he smiled, a small, soft thing, “very well, go ahead.”

“Good,” Saran matched up to him, swiped the cream with one gloved finger, felt the whisper against their skin, tracing across their scars. Hide. Hide. Hide. They swiped the dollop across Lancer’s cheek, focused on the feel of the energy as it pulsed in the cream, hide, hide, hide. They stepped back, closed the tin, stared at his face. No mole. Somehow he looked incomplete without it. “There we go, no more curse. For now at least.”

He closed his eyes, bowed his head slightly, “Thank you, Saran.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome.” They walked back to the bathroom, shoved the tin back onto the shelf, walked back out. “Now, are we going to go, or not?” Lancer held up the brush in reply, and they groaned and flopped back onto the couch. “Fine.”

Lancer resumed brushing their hair, “Saran,” he said gently, almost too gently. 

“What?”

“You realize that I will keep you safe.”

“I know that.”

“Even from unwanted conversations.” His voice held the slightest tinge of amusement.

They paused. Huh. “Thanks, Lancer.”

A huff of amusement. “You’re welcome, Saran."


	22. Saran's Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments and kudo's! They are greatly appreciated! I hope you all enjoy this chapter and have a wonderful day!

They found Diarmuid’s master in a large room, where he conducted staff like puppets. He stood in the middle of a sea of people, pointing this way and that as he directed the flood. He wore one of his expensive suits, what remained of his hair shining silver gold in the light. Tables were being set down, chairs pushed beneath them. A podium already stood in place in one side of the room, set upon a lifted platform, the edges covered in red fabric that draped down to brush against the polished marble floors. Above the scene, the chandelier sparkled, a million crystal dewdrops hung suspended in the air, refracting the light in a hundred different directions. Already, the smell of cooking food permeated the air, drifting from the kitchens. 

Lord Alexander Humphry turned with their arrival, made a few more commands, then strode in their direction, servants parting before him. “Ah, Lancer, Secada, you two look absolutely wonderful.” He glanced at his watch, “I wasn’t expecting you for another hour.” Gone was the cold, aloof mage, a genial host in his place. But Diarmuid still caught the familiar gleam in his blue eyes, calculating, weighing pros and cons, aligning events in order.

Saran sent Diarmuid a glare, but Diarmuid ignored it, giving his lord a short bow instead. “My apologies, Lord Humphry, is there a place we should wait while you finish getting your things in order?”

“Yes, yes, I do have quite a nice parlor, as you will see.” He herded them out of the room, his voice flashing in Diarmuid’s mind.  _ “The familiars have gathered in droves. There is no way you two can retreat without seeming suspicious. Did you get the glasses?” _

_ “Yes, my lord.” _

_ “Good.”  _ He opened a door, led them into a parlor with a large fireplace and plush seats. “No doubt you will find this to your satisfaction. I apologize for not being ready, I did not expect anyone to arrive so soon.” He gave a somewhat nervous smile, and Diarmuid marveled at the act. Perhaps this plan had a chance of succeeding after all. “I am sure the two of you can entertain yourselves here. I will send a servant to collect you as soon as we are ready.”  _ “You are safe from prying eyes here, the room is warded, but stay cautious.”  _ Then he was gone, door shutting with a final bang behind him.

“Wonderful,” Saran said dryly, glaring at Diarmuid with their bright teal gaze. “This is an hour I could have used on literally anything else.”

Diarmuid shrugged, pulling out his glasses and slipping them onto his nose. The corners of the room glowed, but they weren’t nearly as saturated with light like Saran’s lab was. “Not necessarily,” he said, “this is an hour we can spend grilling you on your act.”

“My act.” They said blankly.

Diarmuid gave them a thin smile, “Your act.”

. . .

Walking straight backed, looking as if they were paying attention to conversations instead of obviously checking out. This “act” was basically Lancer giving them a crash course on dealing with people they didn’t want to be near without swearing at them or yelling at them to go away. And something called “proper posture,” whatever that meant Saran really did try to pay attention, but there were so many other things to focus on. Like the undetectability potion. It’s basis would probably be akin to the cream Saran used, but even then, the cream wasn’t really a potion. They just found a product that whispered strongly of hide, grabbed that, then worked from there. But a potion, that was just mana, there was no real base, so they’d have to get clever. Stolen goods, possibly. Where were stolen goods sold? Pawn shops? Actually, now that they thought about it, there were probably lots of useful items that could be found in pawn shops. But that left the stones, and gemstones weren’t really meant to hide. What did they have in their lab that might work? Aventurine for luck, luck was a major factor in staying undetected. Black Tourmaline for protection, with the right intent that could be spun around. Fluorite for protection against magecraft as well as amplification, but that just covered magecraft. What about eyes? What about technology? Illusions perhaps, but Saran could make illusions with their potions . . . hmm. If some gems could be used as opposites to their original intents, could they use stones that garner attention to make people look elsewhere? That still left technology though -

“Saran,” Lancer’s voice, jarring the flow of their thoughts. They scowled at him, and he raised an eyebrow, eyes laughing behind his golden frames, “You stopped listening.”   
Saran rolled their eyes and leaned back in their chair, tilting their head to stare at the ceiling. There was an ornate molding in the corner there, built from white wood, curving and dipping, as if it was holding the ceiling up. “Damn right I did. I don’t plan on talking to anyone. I’ll be the aloof mage.”

Lancer snorted faintly, arms crossed, leaning against the other chair. “Saran,” he said, “you’re pretending to be a Master, people are going to approach you. I know I swore to protect you from unwanted conversations, but I have my duty to my lord.”

“And he comes first.” Saran grumbled, and Lancer sighed. 

“I am sorry, but the whole point of this gathering is to discover information. My lord will be doing his own search, but I have a duty to look too.” He smiled, a faint, thin thing, “However, any conversation that is not from a Master, I will help you avoid.”

Saran groaned, “I guess that counts for something, then.” The huffed loudly, then straightened. “How much longer do we have?”

“That depends on whether my lord wishes us to arrive early or late. The earlier we arrive, the more likely it may be that people see through our ploy. But the later we arrive, the more attention we’ll garner.”

“You’re a Servant,” Saran slumped further into their seat, “you’ll gather enough attention already.”

Diarmuid gave them an odd look, “Don’t sit like that, you’ll wrinkle your suit. And yes, I suppose you’re right.” He tilted his head, eyes glancing at nothing, then he straightened, adjusting his jacket. “My lord is sending a servant,” he smirked, his small, sly smirk, eyes flashing behind his glasses, “Master.”

Saran glared at him. “No.”

“My liege?” He offered, eyes dancing. Damn him, he thought this was funny. 

“Absofuckinglutly not.” Saran pushed themself up, “Just call me Saran.” They took a deep breath, ignoring the nervous fear that tried to rise in their mind. A leaden ball sinking down their throat to bury itself in the pit of their stomach. People. Talking. They couldn’t do this, they couldn’t. They took another breath, sucking it between their teeth, feeling it flutter across their tongue and the back of the mouth. The room was trembling, no, it was them. Their hands shook as they smoothed back their hair. 

“Saran,” and Lancer’s hand laid itself on their shoulder, gentle and light. Steadying. “You’ll be alright. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

They nodded, swallowed hard. “Yeah. Yeah. I know.” They closed their eyes, rocked back on their heels, took a deep breath, then another, then another. It would only be for a little bit. Pretend. They were selling potions, brief, ten to twenty minute meetings. Their lab was behind them, waiting patiently for their return. The supply run and the endless opportunities was ahead, all they had to do was step forwards. And if things went horribly wrong, they had a vial of liquid in the inside pocket of their suit, waiting for them to use it. They took another breath, and felt their shoulders relax the slightest amount. They opened their eyes, snapped a grin at Lancer, a shade smaller than their normal blinding challenge, and spoke. “Well then. Let’s get this over with, Lancer.”

. . .

They were not the first people there, nor were they the last. His lord had decided to put them in the middle. The tables had been set up, round ones with white tablecloths and four chairs each. There were longer ones tucked against the wall, already covered with platters of intricately made food. Above the scene, the chandelier glittered, an overawing symbol of opulent wealth. It was all very different then the gatherings Diarmuid had attended when he was alive. Formal, the air almost stiffening, without the relaxed grins and cheerful smiles he was used to. And the people were different as well, not warriors or kings, not peasants or lords, but mages. Seven had arrived already, milling about the room with all the delicacy of cats with sheathed claws. Voices purrs and flashing eyes, smiles thin and sharp as knives. 

Two talked to his lord, both dark haired and pale skinned with similar features. He recognized one, Tohsaka Yusuke, in a dark red dress that glinted with gold accents, a sliver chain flashing at her throat, her hair cut short around her face. On her hand, the red command seals stood out like a brand, and mana lay thick around her shoulders and draped across her back like a cloak, flashing red and orange and yellow like fire. Dangerous, his lord had called her, and he could see it in the amount of mana she carried, so different then the slight shimmer around Saran’s form.

Which meant the person beside her was family, her younger brother if Diarmuid remembered correctly. Compared to the blaze around her, he was a faded ember, not as powerful, not as dangerous. Tohsaka Rei, almost as resplendent as his sister in a brown and red suit. He must have been brought so Yusuke could spread her information net a little bit wider. Diarmuid wasn’t sure how well it would work. Rei had a bored look on his face, and he was obviously tuned out of the conversation, gaze drifting around and landing on people before flitting on.

Yusuke wasn’t the only Master there, besides his lord, he spotted Mel Pearce, a brown haired, brown eyed, middle aged woman with a hatchet face and the clothing of a governess. She didn’t have the blaze of power Yusuke had, but a slight green glimmer tracing her veins. Healing magecraft, Diarmuid recalled. More of it then Saran and Rei, less then his lord and Yusuke. She stared at the gathering with tired eyes, flicking around the room, taking note of every exit and entrance. 

And, finally, Diarmuid spotted Matou Teruo in a shabby looking suit, talking to a brown haired, blue eyed woman in a sunny dress. His mana wasn’t strong, barely more then the amount Saran had, but he held himself with confidence. He chatted with the woman, a drink in one hand, the other waving about as he spoke. The woman, her power barely stronger then his, watched him with rapt attention, eyes wide and adoring. 

The other two were less attention grabbing, but Diarmuid forced himself to pay attention to the varying levels of mana glittering around the bodies. A dark skinned man in a dark suit with a pulse of blue through his veins speaking to a Japanese woman in a glittering dress whose quick movements stirred the air around her. The two, even in their conversation, glanced around nervously, as if they knew they were outranked.

And this faint buzz of conversation, between his lord and the Tohsaka siblings, between Matou and his woman, between the other two mages stilled the minute he and Saran entered the room. Yusuke turned, her bright blue eyes alighting on Diarmuid, and her mouth twisted the faintest bit. Rei looked at Saran and grinned. His lord gave a nervous smile, and even though Diamruid was looking closely, he couldn’t see the glint of delight in his eyes. Mel Pearce stiffened, nostrils flaring as if she had sighted something unpleasant. Matou paled, leaning back slightly away from the sight. The woman beside him veiled her eyes and smiled at Diarmuid, a demure thing, and he nodded genially back. The two other magnus took shuffling steps back, eyes widening in shock.

Well, his lord's plan to make a scene was working.

Beside him, Saran stiffened, a monetary thing but no doubt everyone in the room caught it. They glanced at everyone with their bright teal eyes, scouring over faces, glancing over the room, then, without a word, they moved to one of the tables, footsteps echoing off the walls. Diarmuid followed them, nodding at everyone else in a friendly manner, then pulled back a seat for them to sit. They sat, and he stood behind them, guarding, waiting for someone to make their move.

. . .

They’d been plunged into one of their nightmares, that was the only explanation Saran could think of for why they had agreed to this. Forget the supply run, forget supposedly maybe caring about how Lancer felt, this was madness. They were trapped in a dream, locked in, and they had to find a way out. Sooner rather than later. But if it was a dream, then why did it feel so real? The pull of the gloves as they slid over their scars. The faint buzz of conversation that picked back up, this time with a decidedly nervous air. The eyes that glanced at them, lingered, glanced away then returned. They’d been put up on display for all to see, and they hated it. It was all they could do to not bolt out of the room and run, fast as possible, back to their lab and lock the door behind them. 

But they didn’t, just sat there with stiff shoulders, watching people talk and glance at them and Lancer. Trying to put the pieces together. One of them would approach soon, probably. God, Saran hoped nobody would. If they managed to get out of this thing without talking to anyone, it would be a miracle.

Lancer bent slightly, voice quiet as he murmured, “Would you like anything to drink?” Saran shook their head minutely, and he sighed, “Very well. I do think Mel Pearce is going to attempt conversation first. Remember, deep breaths, you can do this.” He leaned back up, and Saran felt like he’d just yanked away his hand and let them sink underwater. Drowning, they were drowning, and they needed to come up for air before their lungs burst. They’d barely been here for three minutes, and already they were over their head. 

The lone woman, Mel Pearce if Lancer was right, walked over, her steps clicking against the ground. Measured, precise, meant to unnerve. Well, it was working. She stopped in at Saran’s table. “May I sit?” She said, her voice sharp and business like.

Saran swallowed the ‘no’, and then swallowed the ‘whatever’ that attempted to follow it, and instead managed a “Go ahead.”

She nodded sharply, pulled out a seat, then sat down. She looked at Lancer, then back at Saran. “You realize that the Holy Grail War doesn’t start for another two months.” There was something dry in her tone, digging, curious. Amused, maybe.

Saran resisted the urge to roll their eyes. “I am aware of that.”

“It isn’t normal to summon a knight class this early into the game.” Saran didn’t say anything, and she smiled, something thin and unamused. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“That’s because I didn’t give it to you.”

Her smile turned sour, tightening at the corners. “Of course. I am Mel Pearce. You are?”

“Saran Secada.” It was gritted out, and Saran could feel Lancer’s gaze heavy on their shoulders. What did he expect? Their reserves of respect were running out already. 

“Saran Secada,” Mel Pearce repeated, “How odd, I’ve never heard that name before, though I have kept very close tabs on all mail services that deliver historical artifacts. Do you have another name you go buy?”

“No.” Saran said. Duh, false names were annoying. Who the hell had time for them?

“I am quite curious as to why you summoned your servant so early.” She said, prying, prying. Saran was getting tired of her prying, getting tired of her presence.

“I think you are an idiot if you haven’t.” Saran blurted out, and something flashed across her face. Surprise, perhaps, annoyance. Saran had ceased to care.

“Well, I -”

The doors snapped open, as if blown through by a gust of wind, and Saran jumped and twisted in their seat, their heart lurching painfully. Lancer had moved slightly in front of them, waiting for an attack, hands out as if about to summon his spears. Someone swept into the room, a woman, too pale, with white hair that trailed past her shoulders in a freezing wave. The dress she wore was white as well, shimmering with each step she took, flashing like snow under sunlight. Her face was hard, a mask of cool disdain. In that pale picture, her red eyes and her crimson lips and the violent command seals on her hand stood out sharply, too sharply, burning against the background, vivid as blood. 

“Oh,” Pearce said, a bit of disgust leaking into her voice, “I see the homunculus wanted to make a grand entrance. How terribly droll.”

. . .

Iviana Von Einzbern, the homunculus. The one Diarmuid’s Master had said wouldn’t be a danger because she was hardly a true mage. How wrong he had been. If Tohsaka Yusuke was a wildfire, then this woman was a star on the verge of collapse, blazing hot before imploding and wiping out everything around her. He could barely see the person beneath through the pulse of her mana, just the edges. The shift of a skirt, the flash of a hand, the glimpse of red eyes. But he could hear her walk, measured, cadenced. It was not the walk of a mage, calm and practiced. It was the walk of a predator, certain and slow, careful and purposeful.

He was in a room full of house cats and a lion had just walked through the door.

He could hear Pearce say something, probably derogatory. She couldn’t see it, the blaze of power, Iviana was made of it like no one else in this room was. He had to get his lord and Saran out before she tried something, did something, burned them all up with a snap of his fingers. He couldn’t even tell what type of mana it was clinging to her skin, it was that bright, that pure. 

“Lord Alexander Humphry,” Iviana said, and her voice crackled through the room. Beside him, Saran, shifted, stiffened. He slowly dropped his arm, tried to tell them that everything was alright by slipping out of guard. But he was ready, muscles taunt for whatever she would pull. “When I heard a confirmed Master was hosting a party, I could hardly believe it.” She stepped forwards, each one sharp and steady, “Why, I still hardly believe my eyes. This is the perfect setup for someone to take all of you out.”

His lord stiffened, eyes narrowing, the glimmer of green and blue in the air around him flexing. “They could try, of course, but the defenses around this place are impeccable. You are only here because I allowed you in. Besides,” his shoulders relaxed a fraction, a smile flicking across his lips, “many of these people are not Masters, not yet, at least. To assassinate all Masters would mean you’d have to eliminate them as well. And there are rules about pulling innocents into the war.”

“You are assuming I care about the rules.” She laughed, something high and tinkling, and Diarmuid could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise up with the sound. “But you are lucky, I wore a nice dress today, I would dearly hate to get it stained with your blood.” She spun, and Diarmuid could feel her gaze land on himself and Saran. “I see I’m not the only one who thought the way I did.”   
“Please,” Saran said dryly, “if I wanted to kill you all, there are plenty of ways I could have done so without showing my face. I’m not a fucking idiot.”

Diarmuid stiffened slightly, resisting the urge to reach out and grab their shoulder. Of all of the people in the room, Saran was the one in the most danger. But he didn’t have to worry, “I like you,” Iviana said and laughed again. She began walking their way, and Diarmuid blinked sharply. The brightness of her mana was fading slightly, at least, it was easier to see the woman within. “And who is that with you? Mel Pearce, the Clock Tower mage? Do you think I’m droll?” She slid onto the table, her hand reaching out to cup the woman’s face, turn it to her. Iviana was smiling, thin and dangerous, Pearce was not. “Perhaps I’ll kill you first.” Then she slid off the table and was walking forwards. “Matou, Tohsaka, come here. Us prominent families have much to discuss.”

Pearce sucked her breath through her teeth, “How disgraceful, that is not how a mage is supposed to act.”

“I thought you said she was a homunculus.” Saran said blankly, leaning back in their seat, and Diarmuid resisted the urge to facepalm. They were baiting her, of course they were. This was Saran he was talking about. 

Pearce glared at them, then stood, chair scraping back before she stalked off to speak to his lord. By the food table, the elder Tohsaka, Matou, and Iviana spoke. Matou looked terrified, Yusuke vaguely amused. Iviana looked . . . hungry was the best word Diarmuid could think of, dangerous, but also, somehow, cornered. She looked cornered. And for someone as powerful as her, that couldn’t be good. 

“Thank god she left,” Saran grumbled, “I was about to start tearing my hair out. Do you think we can skedaddle? I do not want to be here if Iviana decides to go psychopath and paint the room with blood.”

“No, we can’t.” He murmured back, “and she wouldn’t. You heard here, she doesn’t want to get her dress dirty.” 

“I don’t think that would stop her.” Saran was right, and he knew it. But for all her power, there were seven other mages in this room, plus himself. They would stop her before she could kill them all, and like Saran had said, there were other ways to wipe out everyone in the room. Ways that did not include showing off. No, Iviana had wanted to make an impression. 

And she had succeeded.

Diarmuid stiffened, breath stuttering in his throat. He set his hand gently on Saran’s chair, turning to watch the door. He curled his other hand loosely, not summoning his spear yet, but ready just in case. Saran twisted, their teal eyes snapping onto his face. “What is it, Lancer?”

“Servant,” he breathed, tracking their entrance. They were let through the barrier, they must have had an invitation. He tracked them through the hallways, tracked them as they were led to the door. It opened, someone stepped inside, and just like his own entrance, every conversation stilled.

Servants were mana, so Diarmuid had been expecting the blaze of power when he spotted one. He’d expected that blaze to stay like it had stayed around Iviana, getting easier to see through, but still staying. He’d been wrong. The blaze of power swirled, then faded, coalescing into a form. A man, as tall as Diarmuid was, with pale skin. His hair was blue, some light shade of the color, cropped on the top, falling past his waist in the back. His eyes were red, almost violently so, and silver earrings brushed the shoulders of his suit. A blue undershirt with gold accents, a darker blue grey vest with gold buttons and slacks of the same color. He had a jacket made of the same fabric as well, tossed casually over his shoulders. A silver bracelet and a ring on one hand, some other silver decoration attached to his belt. He held himself ready, like a warrior would, but there was exhaustion in his eyes, a lazy weariness at odds with the way he stood.

Diarmuid stilled, completely, a dozen stories flashing through his mind. Told to him by Manannan when he was but a child. He knew this face, that stance, the flashing red eyes, the silver earrings, despite the years that had passed between his time and Diarmuid’s own.

Cu Chulainn, Ireland’s Child of Light, had come to pay a visit.


	23. Cu the Big Blue Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thank you all for your comments and kudos, they bring a smile to my face. Hope you all enjoy this next chapter and have a good day! (also, sorry about the title, I really couldn't resist.)

Saran stared at the heroic spirit for a few seconds before sighing and slumping even further into their seat. Wonderful. Just what they needed. They half hoped Iviana did go crazy and tried to kill everyone here. That way they would have an excuse to leave. Lancer tapped their shoulder lightly, and they stifled a groan and straitened. That was right. Mages. Stupid Mages with their stupid etiquette and their stupid pride and their stupid -

“Oh,” The Servant said, his voice carrying the same Irish lilt Lancer had, “it seems I’m late. How rude of me.” He sounded how Saran felt, exhausted and tired of everything. “Which one of you is Lord Alexander Humphry?”

“That would be me.” Alexander said, turning away from whomever it was that had just left Saran’s table. Beside him, she stiffened, eyes widening slightly. Alexander’s face was completely blank, and Saran resisted the urge to shout out that there was a Servant right there with no Master to be found. What was the point of them being here? They could be working on their potions for Pete’s sake! 

“Oh good, my Master has a message for you.” He, the servant, walked up to Alexander and what's-her-name, grinning lazily. Behind Saran, Lancer relaxed. The three prominent mage families began talking again, and the three other people started up their own bit of chatter. Then, to Saran’s great disappointment and disgust, the last person headed in their direction.

They leaned back in their seat, “Lancer.” It was practically a beg, this counted as an unwanted conversation right? It had to count. The man had no command seals!

He bent slightly, “My apologies, but I just got orders from my lord. The Servant showing up complicates matters. You’re going to have to fend for yourself for a bit.” He straightened, giving them a nod, then walked off, towards the food bar. 

The man, blue eyes, brown hair, Saran really couldn’t care less, smiled. “Sending your guard dog away? I feel special.” He sat across from Saran, extended a hand, “I’m Tohsaka Rei, it’s nice to meet you.”

Saran stared at his hand as if it carried the plague, and did not shake it. “Sure.” They said, glaring at him. They could not tell him to fuck off. They could not tell him to fuck off. They could not tell him to fuck off. Damn Lancer for leaving them alone, and damn his lord for making him do so. “What do you want.”

The guy, what did he say his name was, Ray? Roy? Rei? Something. Whatever his name was, his smile faltered slightly, and he set his hand down onto the table. “Well, to get to know you better. My sister is participating in the War, after all. It is my brotherly duty to help her out any way I can.”

“Bullshit.”

He laughed, “Caught me. But I do what to get to know you better.” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming, and asked. “So, lovely, what are you here for?”

Was it too late to grab the table, flip it, and run? Probably. God fucking damn it all, Lancer better get back here before Saran lost it. 

. . .

_ “I need you to talk to this Servant, find out what you can.”  _ Diarmuid almost gritted his teeth, carefully putting a plate of food together for Saran. He could feel Saran’s annoyance, palpable in the air, heavy like a storm about to break. He had no illusions about how long they could last alone, but the idea of bringing an enemy Servant close to them itched. They would have to manage for a little bit at least. He set the plate down on the table and filled a cup with water, turning halfway to watch the Servant, Cu Chulainn, speak with his lord. 

Diarmuid was Lancer class, so Cu could not be Lancer, so Saber perhaps? Possibly, it would fit his legend. 

Cu finished his talk with Diarmuid’s Master, then turned around, surveying the area. His eyes alighted on Diarmuid, and he began to walk his way, slow and steady as he had all the time in the world. Diarmuid waited for him, cup in one hand, plate in the other, refusing to look at Saran and their plight. He knew if he did, he would end up walking back to help.

“Ya know,” Cu said, lazily as he approached, “I wasn’t expecting another Servant to be here.”

“Nor was I,” Diarmuid said, “your arrival was unexpected.”

“That’s the idea.” This close, Diarmuid could see the mana that formed him, glimmering cracks in his skin, threaded through his hair and tangling in the air around him. Cu stuck out a hand, “Caster.”

Diarmuid looked at it, then set the cup down and shook. His hand was warm, with a warrior’s calluses despite the class. He hadn’t been expecting Caster, but then again, he had been taught rune magic. “Lancer.”

Cu’s lips tightened and he took a deep breath. “Of course you are.” He opened his eyes, then nodded in Saran’s direction. “Your Master seems to be in a bit of a pickle.”

Diarmuid picked up the cup again, glancing back at Saran. Tohsaka Rei was leaning slightly over the table, a grin on his face, lazily gesturing as he spoke. Saran leaned away from him, alternating their teal eyed glare at the mage and at Diarmuid. A bit of a pickle was an understatement, about to snap seemed more likely. He gave them an encouraging smile, then turned back to Cu. “They’ll be fine. What about your Master? It seems odd that they would let you come here alone.”

Cu grinned, a lazy, tired thing. “Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t. What do you think of the Master’s so far?”

“I think I would be a fool to tell you,” Diarmuid replied, smooth and certain.

Cu cackled. “Perhaps, come on, we should probably save the Tohsaka kid before your Master kills him.”

“They wouldn’t kill him,” Diarmuid said, but Cu was already striding towards Saran’s table, and Diarmuid was not going to let them face a Servant alone. And if he stopped him . . . Diarmuid sighed, and began to walk that direction as well.

. . .

Saran had tuned what's-his-face out. His very presence and prattling had sparked an idea for a potion, the only good thing to come out of this whole encounter. A silence potion, although how it would work Saran didn’t know. What carried mana for silence? Headphones? Probably not, or at least certain types might. Earplugs. Silencers for guns. What about stones? Ones that brought peace might work. Silence was equated with peace. Calming stones, hmm . . . most calming stones were for personal calming. Soothing anger or stress or whatnot. How to turn that outward was the question. Perhaps . . . 

“Blah blah blah blah blah.”

Saran’s eyebrow twitched, the flow of their thoughts stalling to a halt. Damn it. They glared sullenly at the mage in front of them, hoping he’d get the message and leave before Saran screamed in frustration. They turned their glare from the idiot to Lancer, who had left them with an asshole who wouldn’t stop talking. He was coming back, thank goodness, with a plate of food and a cup of water. A cup of water would be useful. They could dump it over this mage’s head to shut him up for a few moments. Then they noticed that Lancer was not alone, the other Servant was with them, and all their relief drained into aggrievance.

“Blah blah blah blah-”

The other Servant grabbed a chair and dragged it out from under the table. It scraped along the ground, cutting off who-cares speech. The Servant spun the chair around and sat, arms crossed over the back. He glanced at Saran and grinned. “You’re Lancer’s Master, which means you,” he turned to who-cares, “must be the Tohsaka sibling, right?”

The Tohsaka sibling pulled back in his seat, fear flashing across his face. Saran could hear Lancer’s footsteps, watched as he set the plate of food in front of him, and felt his hand fall lightly onto their shoulder. “My apologies,” he murmured softly, “are you okay?”

No, they weren’t. They were tired, and they were annoyed, and they had had an idea until this asshole had jarred their thinking process. They wanted out of this mess, to hide in their lab and work on a potion and chase down that blooming idea but they couldn’t because they were stuck playing Master in a room full of Mages. Okay was far from the state they were in. But they nodded instead, reaching out for the cup of water. This might have been Lancer’s most successful ploy to get them to eat yet, after all, if their mouth was full, they didn’t have to talk. And not talking meant not dealing with idiots. 

“Yes,” the Tohsaka sibling said, “I am.” He sounded decidedly nervous, pressing back against the chair, eyes flitting between Lancer and the other Servant. He swallowed, “Did you want anything?”

“Tell me about your sister,” the other Servant said, “I’ve heard she's powerful, pretty too.” He glanced over lazily to where the three prestigious families were talking. “I can see at least one of the rumors is true. Is she as powerful as they say? Have an artifact yet? I hope you do, two servants summoned already, I wonder how long it will take the other Masters to get on board?” His eyes flicked back to Tohsaka younger, and he grinned.

Saran drank some of their water, then began to eat, slowly, methodologically. Now, where had they been with their idea? Oh, right, stones. How to turn that power outward. That would make a potion that calmed others, but would it have to be a gas like the fear potion? How would calming others even work? More importantly, would it shut them up? What if they only used silence mana and stones for amplification, that could work. They would have to put it on their list for tomorrow.

A chair scraped harshly against the floor, and then Tohsaka younger walked away, shoulders stiff and back straight. Damn it. They’d had something there. “Well, that was rude.” Other Servant said. “He didn’t even answer my questions.”

“You’re trying to speed up the Holy Grail War.” Lancer said, almost disbelievingly. 

Other Servant shrugged, “You’re here, aren’t you? What’s having a Lancer Servant at an information gathering party going to do but put people into a panic? So,” he grinned again, eyes landing on Saran, “I am quite curious to know what your plan is.”

. . .

Diarmuid took a deep breath, smoothing his face into neutrality. He kept his hand on Saran’s shoulder, hoping that it might hold them back from cursing, or snubbing, or being rude to Cu, who watched Saran with his burning red eyes. Saran was on the radar now, there was no getting them off it, but how they dealt with Cu might determine how much of a threat he and his Master thought they were. Saran swallowed their mouthful of food and said, “Good for you,” then began eating again. Diarmuid closed his eyes and restrained a sigh. Cu pulled back slightly, raised an eyebrow. Saran ignored them both, grabbing another bite of their meal and staring at the table cloth. They were ignoring him. Honestly, that was probably the best thing they could have done.

“Well then,” Cu said, pulling back slightly. “We don’t have much to talk about, do we?”

Diarmuid leaned forwards slightly, “We could talk about your plan.” He offered, “Certainly there has to be more to it than getting the War to start early.”

Cu’s eyes flicked to him, then to the hand he had laid on Saran’s shoulder. He smirked, “Eh, not much. We got bored waiting, and I wanted some action, and my Master had no intention of coming. Win win situation.”

Which meant his Master was not here, and was not from a prominent mage family. Someone like Saran maybe, who was only loosely affiliated with mage society. But the amount of mana Cu had with him suggested that his Master was not like Saran. Then again, he was Caster class, that could account for it. Diarmuid smiled thinly, “And I am simply here to make sure nobody gets too trigger happy.” He glanced over to where Iviana spoke with Tohsaka and Matou. Her blaze of power had barely dimmed, outshining Tohsaka’s wildfire and the few threads of light that clung to Matou. 

Cu followed his gaze, “Oh yes, I heard about that from our generous host. Any Servant she summons will be an absolute nightmare to confront.”

A soft, breathy giggle, light and amused. “Yes, I do believe you’re right. Do you mind if I sit here?”

Diarmuid stiffened, and Cu froze, both of their eyes flickering to the woman who had approached the table. Silently. He should have noticed her approach, how had he not noticed her approach? No, it was fine. It was Matou’s companion, the woman whose mana was barely more powerful than his. She was harmless. He relaxed his grip on Saran’s shoulder as they looked up. They sighed, something more of a growl then a rush of air, “Whatever.” 

The woman giggled again and sat, the fabric of her yellow and orange dress rustling with the movement. She moved smoothly, leaning slightly forward, her dark brown hair cascading over one shoulder, her bright blue eyes flicking between Diarmuid, Cu, and Saran. She drew a finger across the table cloth, small wrinkles following it’s path. “Thank you so much, I needed a change of conversation, and this one looked infinitely more interesting. I’m Maria, it’s nice to meet you?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Caster,” Cu purred, leaning forwards as well, grinning widely. 

“Lancer,” Diarmuid said. Thank goodness his mole was covered up, dangerous this woman was not, but she could bring trouble. He had to watch his words, she’d come with Matou after all. Or had she? He’d seen them talking, but that didn’t mean anything. And there was something relaxing about her, something that made him want to drop his guard. She was harmless after all, her mana was barely stronger then Saran’s.

Saran wasn’t harmless. Hadn’t his almost year in their company proven that?

But this woman, she was definitely harmless. 

“Saran,” Saran said, slowly, reluctantly, as if they really didn’t want to say it but they had no choice. Diarmuid shook his head slightly, forcing his thoughts back into order. Maria was harmless, there was no doubt about that. “Why are you here?”

“Because,” she said, leaning back slightly, tapping her cheek lightly, “like I said, the conversation you three seemed to be having was very interesting. And the people even more so.” She winked, her smile bright and cheerful.

“Well, I certainly know that my day has been made infinitely better by your appearance, lovely Maria.” Cu said, cheerfully, and Maria giggled. Cu glanced to Diarmuid, his grin turning sly, “Wouldn’t you say so too, Lancer?”

“Ladies and gentleman,” the call rang throughout the room, and Diarmuid glanced towards the podium, to where his lord stood with a glass of water held in his hands. He surveyed the room with a calm gaze, mana flexing around his form. “I see that you all have made yourself comfortable. I hope I do not impose when I begin this, but there are many things that must be addressed.”

“Oh,” Maria said lightly, tossing her shining hair and turning in her seat to watch his lord with bright eyes, “Speech time, this should be fun.”

“Yes, fun.” Saran said dryly. “Yay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty curious about this, who do you guys think will end up summoning whom? Like, class wise, who do you think the Masters I've introduced in the past two chapters will end up summoning? Like I said, just curious. Anyway, once again, have a great day!


	24. Saran's Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day Pt two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 24 chapters in and Saran realizes they have friend. Progress! . . . I don't know how they became so oblivious to literally eveything but potion making.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thanks for you support! Hope you enjoy this chapter and have a lovely day!

Saran was certain that whatever Lancer’s Master’s speech was about, it was probably very important and they should definitely listen to it. So obviously they didn’t. Lancer’s grip tightened on their shoulder, and although they didn’t look up, they bet his eyes were trained on his Master. Other Servant, Caster or whatever, was also focused on the speech giver, body angled in that direction. Maria too also focused on the podium, though Saran could have sworn her eyes kept drifting to them. Whatever, they were tired of everything, and no doubt the speech was boring as hell. They focused on their food, eating as slowly as possible. Silence potion. Silence potion . . . what about anti sound? The contraptions that omitted anti sound were specifically built for that purpose, of course they would have mana that was attributed to silence. How much did an anti sound generator cost? How many would they need? Hmmm, perhaps they could find something along that line tomorrow.

“ - Of course, as many here have concluded, I do plan on participating in this Grail War.” Saran glanced up. Benefactor dude was getting to the point. “And I see many others have come for the same reason. I toast to my fellow competitors - ” 

He raised his wine glass up, and Saran tuned out again. Beyond silence potions, what else would they need? Amplification, so they’d have to pick up more scissors or possibly a microphone or a megaphone. They would also need -

“Cut to the chase, Lord Alexander,” Iviana interrupted, her dress swishing as she stepped forwards. “You threw this delightful party to gather information. Here’s what you have figured out. Five out of seven Masters are here. One sent their Servant. The last has sent a familiar, I know you felt it flapping around your bounded field.” She spun around, skirts twisting and hair flying with the movement. “All Master’s have been summoned. Two Servants have been as well. This means that the Holy Grail War will be starting in a few weeks.” She smiled, “I hope you all are ready~”

Lord Alexander pulled himself up, his eyes flashing. “And are you, Einzbern?”

Lancer’s grip tightened on Saran’s shoulder, fingers digging into their suit. It wasn’t painful, but hard enough that Saran could no longer ignore the touch. 

Iviana laughed, loud and long. Then her laughter cut off, as sharp as if someone had stabbed her in the throat. When she spoke again, her voice was cold. “I know what you all think of the Einzbern homunculi. That we are weak. That we are tools. That we have no use in this war but to provide the Grail. I am here to tell you that you are wrong.” She waited for a few moments, then spun around, walking towards the exit. Each footfall snapped off the walls, echoing harshly through the silence. She opened the door and glanced back, her red eyes shining. “Enjoy your little party while you can and make sure to write your wills up afterward. I will not be leaving any survivors.” She slipped through the opening, and the door slammed shut behind her.

The sound rang loudly in the silence, like the toll of a church bell.

Saran returned to their food and hoped that other people would get the message and leave soon.

. . .

Diarmuid forced himself to relax as his lord coughed. “Well then,” he said, and Diarmuid was unable to tell if the nervousness he showed was real or fake, “would anyone else like to make any announcements?” No one answered, and his lord nodded then continued. “As I was saying, I toast to my fellow competitors. May the best man win.” He raised his glass, and Diarmuid noticed that his hand was shaking slightly.

“I think you meant woman.” Tohsaka said, laughing slightly. Her mana flexed around her as she raised her glass in return.

Diarmuid allowed his gaze to drift to his tablemates. Cu was watching the door with a raised eyebrow, and Maria still watched his lord, her lips pursed the faintest bit. Diarmuid let go of Saran’s shoulder and let his hand fall to the back of their seat. He gripped the wood, feeling the grain against his fingertips. Saran ate as if nothing had happened, as if Iviana’s threat didn’t concern them. 

Cu glanced up at Diarmuid, “Do you think she’ll attack?” He asked, grinning lazily. He sounded as if he hoped that was an option.

Maria frowned, twisting a curl of brown hair around her finger, “I hope not. Do you think Alexander’s bounded field can stand up to her?”

No, it couldn’t. Diarmuid was almost positive Iviana could crack his lord’s bounded field open as easily as breathing, but he couldn’t say that. Saran looked up from their food and swallowed, “Does it matter? If she does, she doesn’t, then you have your answer.” They scooped up another mouthful of food as Maria and Cu watched them with something that might have been akin to horror. Despite everything, Diarmuid found himself fighting back a smile. 

“You’re pretty confident, aren’t you?” Cu said, his eyes locked onto Saran’s form. “Certain Lancer will win?” His eyes flicked back up to Diarmuid’s and he grinned thinly, a bit dangerous, a bit of a challenge. Diarmuid smirked back at him. Cu wouldn’t pick a fight now, but the battlefield was a different matter, and Diarmuid itched to try his skills against the Caster’s.

Saran spoke again, “I am rarely confident about anything outside my work. But I trust Lancer. I believe he can do it.”

Maria straightened, her blue eyes shining, her head tilting to the side. “Oh? You two are close then?”

Diarmuid leaned forwards slightly. He didn’t like the way Maria was looking at them, harmless she may be, but the canny intelligence in her eyes was another matter. Cu too had shot to attention, and no doubt anything Diarmuid said here would be sent straight to Cu’s Master. What could he say? he could hardly deny the fact that they were closer than a Servant and a Master normally were. “We are friends,” he said finally, pressing his fingers against the wood of Saran’s chair. 

Cu smirked, “Hmm, then you might just have an advantage over everyone else here.”

. . .

Saran frowned down at their meal, the conversation around them fading to background noise. Friends. Lancer had called them his friend, and for some reason the idea didn’t want to click. When was the last time they’d had a friend? Eight years ago, maybe a bit longer, before everything had changed. The word was so foreign, hard to understand, it was almost impossible to connect it with who they were now. But Lancer wasn’t the type to lie, so if he said they were friends, then they were . . . friends.

Saran stared at their food, uncomprehending. Friends . . . it didn’t seem right. They were Saran Secada, they didn’t have friends. They had their potions, their lab, their work. They didn’t have friends. But if Lancer was their friend, considered them as their friend, then that meant they were friends and . . . it didn’t make sense. It didn’t make sense. When had this happened? How had they allowed this to happen? They didn’t understand.

They leaned back in their seat, their shoulder bumping Lancer’s hand. Dimly, they heard their name, and they looked up from their food. Both Blue Hair and Maria were watching them curiously. They shook themself, they could think on Lancer’s words later. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Maria giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. “Dangerous, for a Master, what we were talking about could have been important.”

But Saran wasn’t a Master, so it couldn’t have been important. Not for them at least. So they shrugged, “Doubtful.” They returned to their meal, making sure to eat the last bits slowly. They didn’t want to talk, but they didn’t want to think about the revelation swirling in their mind either.

Blue Hair laughed, “So certain of yourself, aren’t you?” He stood, his chair scraping back, and stretched. “Well, I guess I can wish you luck before I go.” He grinned, “Friendly enemies, after all, eh?” Then he was gone, striding towards one of the other conversations taking place around the room.

The doors shut again as someone else left, and Maria sighed, dragging her finger along the table. “I guess I’ve taken up too much of your time as it is.” She winked, “Have a lovely day Saran. You too Lancer!” Then she was gone, her yellow and orange dress and dark hair swishing with the movement. 

Saran groaned, tipping their head back. “Thank goodness they’ve left. Think any one else will try for a conversation?”

Lancer looked down at them, his gold eyes shining, “I certainly hope not. I don’t think you will be able to take another.” He glanced around the room. “But it seems that after Iviana’s declaration, people are leaving in case she does attack us. Just a little bit more to go.” He smiled down at them, and Saran groaned again. 

“Fucking finally,” they straightened, pulling at their jacket. Benefactor was talking to some dude, Maria was talking to some other guy, Tohsaka elder and Tohsaka younger were talking to Blue Hair. Governess looking lady and the Japanese woman had already left. “Do you think we can escape now?”

Lancer tapped their shoulder lightly, “No, we can’t.” His voice was amused and Saran rolled their eyes. This was torture, and he thought it was funny. Was this what friendship was like? Horrifying. They would take their potions any day . . . speaking of potions, it felt about right to implement their contingency plan. They should have done it at the beginning, really, but they had been trying for Lancer’s sake. Hmmm . . . perhaps they really were friends. Saran reached into their jacket and pulled out a small vial. “Saran,” Lancer asked, “What is that?”

Saran opened it and poured a little bit onto their glove before running the damp fabric down their neck. Intimidate. Unapproachable. The mana whispered against their skin, pricking their scars, but it was better than any other potential conversation they might have. They tilted their head back and grinned, shaking the vial in their hand before tucking it away. “Insurance.”

For a moment, Lancer was silent, then he laughed, a soft, breathless sound. “Of course you did. I’m surprised you didn’t use it sooner.”

Saran turned back to the few crumbs that remained of their meal. “Call it a miracle if you will. It’s the only time that will ever happen.” And now they had all the time in the world for the questions and ideas brewing in their brain. Ones that weren’t related to Lancer’s friendship reveal.

. . .

Night had fallen, and the stars above Fuyuki glimmered brightly in the dark. Cu Chulainn, who knelt on a rooftop with his fingers pressed against the concrete, was not impressed. The view from Ireland had been better, the skies clearer, the stars brighter, but time had changed things. Closer to the sky he may be, but pollution had dimmed the light. Ah yes, progress, sometimes it made him want to laugh. 

He shook his head and finished drawing the rune into concrete. For a moment, it flashed red before fading away. Cu stood and stretched, wincing as his back popped. Gah. Trap laying, wonderful for the War, but it played hell on his back.  _ “Oi, Master. You awake?” _

_ “Yes Caster,” _ an amused huff,  _ “I’m awake. Finished playing with your runes?” _

Cu grinned, his teeth flashing white in the dark.  _ “Yep. Any Assassin or Archer who thinks to have a hawks eye view will get a surprise coming their way.”  _ He laughed for a second, imagining Archer’s affronted face. If Archer got summoned, that is. He didn’t have Gae Bolg with him, Archer might not appear, well, not his Archer at least. He snickered, imagining the face Archer would have made if he’d heard Cu say that. His Archer. Priceless. 

_ “Good. Plan going smoothly?” _

Cu shook himself and focused on the task at hand.  _ “Absolutely. Apparently the Einzbern Master waltzed in and threatened everyone before I came in. She did it again when she left. And another Master brought their own Servant, Lancer. Have you ever heard of someone by the name of Saran? Didn’t get a last name.”  _ He scowled, Saran hadn’t been evasive per say, just uninterested. Odd for a Master to be uninterested in information that could have helped them onto the path of victory. 

_ “Hmm, give me a second.”  _ A few moments of silence, then,  _ “No hits for a Saran. Plenty of Sara’s though.” _

Cu clicked his tongue.  _ “Shame. I can tell you a bit about Lancer though. Definitely Irish, had the accent for it, but I don’t recognize him so I doubt I met him in life.” _

_ “Irish Lancer narrows it down a bit, I’ll run it through and see what hits I get. What are your thoughts on the other Masters?” _

_ “Saran’s either confident, disinterested, or a decoy. But they and Lancer seem to get along well, so if they’re a decoy, they’re either a good actor or worked with Lancer before. Lord Alexander is either dumb or acting. I want to go with acting, his defenses were too well placed to be dumb. The Matou Master is weak, but there are ways to get around that, and he seems the type to use them. Tohsaka Yusuke is strong, but she cares for her brother, which is odd for a mage, especially of someone from such a prominent family. I don’t think she’ll let it cloud her judgement though. Mel Pearce is a strong mage, but I think she’s realized that the Tohsaka and Einzbern Master’s outclass her by a long shot. Lord Alexander is stronger than her as well, and maybe Saran, judging from Lancer’s stats. Iviana von Einzbern,”  _ he faltered, then pushed on,  _ “she scares me.” _

_ “Is she that powerful?” _

_ “Yes, but it’s not just her power.”  _ He summoned his staff and twirled it in his fingers. The weight wasn’t the same as Gae Bolg’s, but for now it would suffice. He thought of Iviana, how easily she had interrupted Lord Alexander’s speech. How she had threatened everyone’s life with the confidence of someone who could carry that threat. He thought of her eyes, the look that had resided within them.  _ “It’s because she is afraid. She looks like an animal that’s been injured and cornered, and I don’t like imagining what she’ll do to get out of that corner.” _

For a long moment, Cu’s Master was silent, then words filtered through his brain again.  _ “Return, Caster. The information you’ve gathered is good, but no doubt others will have figured out much of what you had. Let’s leave your traps and wait for the fish to bite.” _

Cu grinned.  _ “Got it, Master.”  _ Then he faded away, gone as if he’d never existed in this world, leaving only his runes behind.


	25. Walmarts Are Like Roaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The alternative title to this was Shopping Shenanigans With Saran, but I think the other was funnier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey peeps! I would like to say thank you all for your comments and kudos! I love every single one I receive. I hope you all enjoy this chapter and have a wonderful day!

Saran woke to a familiar pounding headache, cotton mouth, and sluggish limbs, but those symptoms burned away as realization dawned on them. Today was supply day. Today was supply day. They rolled off the couch and tumbled to their feet, kicking away the blanket that tried to tangle their limbs. What did they need? Amplification, hide, anti-sound . . . they would have to make a list. They grinned. Today was going to be a good day.

“Saran,” Lancer called, “you aren’t planning on wearing your lab coat, are you?”

Saran glanced back at him. He stood by the kitchenette, his eye’s alight with amusement, a small smile on his face. They scowled back at him good naturedly. “No.” 

“Just checking.” He said lightly.

Saran rolled their eyes and stepped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind them. They would have to hit a general store of some kind, definitely a pawn shop. A gem store possibly, were there occult shops in Japan? Probably, they were in a major city. Major cities tended to have a few scattered throughout. Hmm . . . factories if they absolutely had to. Could anti-sound generators be found in general stores? Maybe a major shopping center would have a few. But major shopping centers meant people. Ugh. People. Disgusting. Wait . . . they didn’t speak Japanese. Fuck.

They walked back out of the bathroom cursing softly and tugging at their gloves. Not their work gloves, but not the ones from yesterday either. These were older, the fabric worn in places, thinner, making it easier for Saran to sense the mana in the things they touched. Good gloves, whispering against their skin of supply runs. They were even wearing clean clothes too. Jeans and a sweatshirt, both faded with age. They hadn’t brushed their hair though, they’d done that yesterday, it didn’t need to be done again. 

“Hey, Lancer,” they asked as they sat down, “are you coming with me or not?” If he wasn’t they would need to get a translator. Urgh, that would waste money better put to use towards their potions, and stay in a random person’s presence for longer then ten minutes? Absufuckinglutely not.

Lancer brought them their plate and sat down beside them. They dug in as he spoke. “I have talked with my lord, and we have agreed that I must.” He said it carefully, as if picking and choosing his words. But Saran didn’t care about that, the important thing was that he was coming. Good, they wouldn’t have to face the horrors of people alone. Wait . . . his curse. He’d have to use the cream before they left. “But he is getting us a driver for your things,” Lancer continued, his voice vaguely amused. 

Saran frowned. How big were anti-sound generators? It might depend on the version. More importantly, how heavy were they? Lancer’s strength would probably be needed for that. As for the rest of their haul . . . yes a car would probably be necessary. “Fine.” They turned to their food. They’d probably needed a new notebook as well, their current one was getting a bit full. And they would need . . .

. . .

Diarmuid watched Saran as they ate. They ate distractedly, chewing slowly, fork occasionally resting on the plate for far too long. Their teal eyes focused on something he couldn’t see, brows furrowed in thought. Their hair was an absolute mess, but not the worst he had ever seen it. Their skin lacked the customary grey tinge and the shadows under their eyes were negligible at best. Diarmuid would enjoy the sight while he could. No doubt it would not last much longer. After today, it would be back to Saran’s unhealthy habits. 

Saran caught his eye and tilted their head. He shook his and smiled, before standing up and grabbing the pack of cards. He could play a couple rounds of solitaire while he waited for Saran to finish eating and whatever other preparations they would need to make. 

. . .

Saran growled at the light of the outside world. It was too bright, too blinding, too loud. They wanted the safety of their lab back. But no, progress lay in front of them, not behind. For their potions, they had to do this for their potions. They gripped their list tighter, the paper crinkling in their fist, glaring at Lancer’s back as if they could blame him. He walked in front of them, in a button down shirt and black jeans, probably provided by his lord. He wore his glasses from yesterday, and his mole had been hidden. He looked fit for this outside world, head tipped slightly towards the sun. Horrifying. Imagine being ready to talk to people. Perish the thought. 

Supply run. They had to focus on the supply run and potions they would get out of this. Excitement stirred in their stomach, mixing with the dread. When tossed between people and their potions, their potions would always, always win out. 

Saran held their hand over their eyes and squinted towards their car, trying to make out anything through the glare. There was someone waiting by the car, it looked like their benefactor. What was he doing here? Eh, whatever. As long as it didn’t involve them, they didn’t care.

Benefactor dude glanced at Saran, his eyes slightly narrowed. “Is everything in order?”

Diarmuid nodded. “Yes, my lord.” He said softly, his voice smooth.

“Good. How long will you be gone?”

Saran pushed by him, reaching out to tug open the car door. It whispered beneath their gloves, speed, speed, speed, a barely their whisper, tugging at their scars. “We’ll take longer the more you interrogate us. So bye.” They hopped into the car, sliding into the far seat. They glanced at the driver, then looked down at their list, tapping their hand against the paper. Anything else? No. And they would figure out anything else when they found it.

Lancer entered the car, shutting the door behind him. There was something hard in his gaze, something Saran couldn’t name, but his voice was light when he said, “Where to first?”

“Any major shopping center,” Saran said, running their fingers over the list. “We should be able to find most of this stuff there.”

. . .

Diarmuid kept alert on the drive, gaze focused on the outside world as it flashed by. The Masters from yesterday would still be in Japan, watching his lord, watching Saran. There had been a few familiars scouting the place before they’d left, but his lord had taken care of those, although he was unsure how they had been taken care of. Hopefully in some way that didn’t reveal their ploy. He was worried though, he couldn’t help but be worried. Iviana and Tohsaka were out there, as well as Cu. Those three posed the most danger.

He glanced at Saran. They had curled up on their seat, list pressed against their knees, a pencil held loosely in one hand. Their mana flexed around them, small sparks and a few almost colors, running through their fingers as they absentmindedly messed with their pencil. Their brows were furrowed, but their teal eyes gleamed and there was a small grin on their lips. Excited. Despite it all they were excited and the sight lit a flame of his own in his chest. 

Diarmuid turned from them to the window, a small smile working it’s way across his lips. Perhaps he should relax? The Masters could not pull anything while they shopped. A major shopping center was too wide of a place, had too many witnesses, which meant Cu would not be able to pull anything either. He could relax, use this day as a breather before the Holy Grail War truly began, scout out areas that would be good for battle like his lord suggested. He could truly see what the world had begun, the changes that had happened from his time to now. He could have fun.

Iviana Von Einzbern would not care about innocents.

Diarmuid froze. He knew that fact down to the very marrow of his bones. If it came down to fighting in a crowded shopping center or letting her prey go, Iviana Von Einzbern would choose the fight. He just had to make sure that, if they encountered her, she did not see them. He frowned at his reflection, then focused his eyes on the blur of buildings and trees, looking for the blaze of power that would signal an end to Saran’s outing before it had begun. 

. . .

Saran jumped out of the car as soon as it stopped, glaring around at the mass of cars surrounding them. It was like a sea of vehicles, shining all sorts of colors under the sun. Too many. They wrinkled their nose in disgust and walked around the car as Lancer stepped out of it. He said something to the driver, then shut the door, his amber eyes falling on Saran’s form. He noted their crossed arms and tapping foot and smiled. “Are you ready?”    


“Yes.” Saran started walking forwards, ignoring the few people that were walking towards the shopping center or away from it. Hopefully away. The less people in there the better. They glanced at the building. Blue and yellow with concrete walls . . . it almost looked like a Walmart. There were probably Walmarts in Japan. Walmarts were everywhere. Like roaches.

Lancer fell into step beside them. “What are we looking for?” He asked softly, his eyes scanning the crowd. His hands swung loosely by his side, fingers curled slightly as if to summon his spears.

Saran glanced at their paper. “Whatever gets me this.” They flashed their list in his direction. “And a notebook. And an anti sound generator.” They grinned slightly. “You’re lord’s face when he sees the bill is going to be priceless.”

He leaned over slightly, then reached out, pulling the list from their fingers and smoothing out the paper. His brows furrowed. “Why?”

Saran laughed. “You’ll see.” 

“Not comforting at all.” He said dryly, passing the list back. 

Saran snagged it and shoved it into their pocket with a shrug. They glanced around for any cars, then started across the road. They could already hear the chatter off people, loud and gracious and annoying. They gritted their teeth. “Into the breach we go.” The doors slid open with an automatic hiss and with a deep breath Saran grabbed Lancer’s arm and dragged him inside. 

. . .

The cart Saran had grabbed rattled and squeaked as they pushed it, but it was only one noise in a symphony. It was so loud, and Diarmuid couldn’t help but feel small and insignificant in the face of this. People, everywhere, chatting, pushing similarly squeaky carts, footsteps mingling to create a background noise he didn’t know how to deal with. He felt like he was in Fionn’s halls again, but instead of comrades in arms, these people were strangers. The colors were overwhelming too. Signs with bright kanji proclaimed bargains and items, a wide variety of objects lined shelves, many of the people themselves wore bright clothing. Any hint of mana was lost in the riot of color. He couldn’t even see the back of the building, it seemed to continue on forever.

He was very glad for Saran’s hand, still tangled in his sleeve.

“Come on.” They growled, yanking him along as they pushed the squeaky cart. “Where’s the pharmacy?”

“Ah.” He blinked, forcing his wandering eyes to focus. He found the sign, pointed. “That way.”

“Good.” Saran set off determinately, the squeaky wheel screaming it’s defiance against the chaos. They plowed their way through the crowd, ignoring the yells thrown in their direction. Diarmuid tossed a few apologies back the way they had come, and a few ‘excuse us’ towards the people Saran was pushing through. Finally, the throng broke, and Diarmuid found himself in an aisle of first aid supplies. Saran untangled their hand from his arm and headed straight towards a section full of bandages.

Diarmuid reached out to grab the cart, focusing on the cold metal beneath his palm. He needed something steadying. This was all too much, too fast. A threat could have been anywhere and he would not be able to see it coming. “I do not remember bandages being on the list.” He said, trying to keep his voice light. 

He didn’t succeed.

Saran didn’t seem to be paying attention anyway. They carded through the boxes of bandages, eye’s narrowed, teal eyes glinting in concentration. Their lips moved as they ran their fingers over the tops, mumbling to themself. They were mumbling to themself, a habit that Diarmuid hadn’t seen in a while. He smiled slightly and shook his head. 

Finally, Saran tugged out a box from the very back of the shelf, tossing it into the cart. They grinned at him. “Next stop should be around here somewhere.”

Diarmuid looked at the box of bandages and let go of the cart. “We have bandages in your lab.” He pointed out.

Saran shrugged, grabbing the cart with both hands. “Those aren’t for me. They’re for you. Come on, we need to find a good base for my cream, I’m almost out.” They started off, shoulders hunched forwards, steps hurried.

Diarmuid sucked in a deep, shaking breath. For him. The bandages were for him. His curse, Saran had been thinking about his curse and how they could help him prevent it. He smiled softly. In a few weeks it wouldn’t matter, the War would be in full swing, and no doubt his lord would want his curse active. He hated it, but the simple fact was his curse could prove useful on the battlefield. It was not honorable, but most mages did not care about the honor of their Servants. 

But for now . . . for now he could pretend that Saran’s gift would be useful in the future. And he could be glad that they were thinking of him on this excursion meant for their potions. It was nice.

His smile grew brighter, and he followed after.

. . .

Mana pulsed at the edges of Saran’s senses, running along their scars and making them burn painfully. Each breath was a struggle, fear, delight, greed, power, strength, speed, protect, hide, look, desire, know, it was too much at once. Individually, the mana in the objects was weak, but together it pushed against Saran like waves from the ocean, trying to sweep them away. But that was fine. They were used to struggling through this. They ran their fingers along the face creams and searched for one that whispered more of cover then of look. They found one and tossed it into the cart. “We’re going to meander through the aisles for a bit,” they said. 

“How long is a bit?”

“Until we find everything I need.”

“Are we going through this whole place?” He sounded disbelieving, but when Saran glanced at him, there was a smile on his lips.

“Yep.” They growled out, “through this whole place. We’ll speed run it though.” It was how they normally did this, rolling through the aisles, mind focused on the mana around them. They just needed a whisper of what they were searching for, or hell, even something similar could be twisted around to work. It just took time. And effort. And it was exhausting.

But they weren’t tired. How could they be? Everything, well most of the things, they needed were right here, in this store somewhere. And from that stuff came experimentation and from that came potions. Just the thought made them hyper, jumping up and down on their toes as they spun to the next aisle.

They just had to get through this. 

. . .

“Scissors?” Lancer asked, leaning over them as they tossed a pair into the growing pile of things in the cart. “How are scissors going to be useful?”

Saran began pushing the cart again. “Amplification.”

“Amplification?” Lancer asked disbelievingly.

Saran nodded. “They amplify the space between atoms when they cut. The megaphone is more useful though, but it’s good to have both just in case.”

“Saran that’s -” He broke off, shaking his head and chuckling. Saran glanced at him curiously and he smiled slightly. “You certainly have a way of looking at things, don’t you?”

Saran frowned at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” He nudged them slightly. “It’s a good trait to have.”

Saran stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “I guess.”

. . .

“No.” Diarmuid growled, grabbing the three boxes of ramen noodles and shoving them back onto the shelves. “No prepackaged meals, and certainly not whatever this is. It’s not healthy.”

Saran gaped at him. “It’s food. Shouldn’t you be glad that I’m buying food?”

Diarmuid gave them a flat look. “Saran, if it was healthy food you were buying, then I would be happy. I would throw a celebration. But that,” he pointed at the ramen noodles, “is not healthy, and neither is everything else foodwise you have shoved into this cart. Besides, my lord is providing you with food. You do not need to buy anything else.”

“I’m not buying anything, he’s buying it all.” Saran said sullenly. “He said he’d pay for all my supplies.”

“Food is not supplies.” He glanced at the mountain of material in their cart and winced. “Please tell me that is everything you need.”

Saran gave the pile a cursory glance. “Nope. But we’re done here. Time for a pawn shop.”

Diarmuid took a deep breath and fought the urge to throw his hands up in celebration. Done, finally done. With this place at least. Hopefully the next stop wouldn’t be as bad.

. . .

The pawn shop their driver had discovered was dusty and old and Diarmuid didn’t know what Saran could possibly need in it. But he did know that the driver his lord had hired needed a raise. A huge one. He hadn’t even raised an eyebrow at the request. Diarmuid leaned over slightly to murmur in Saran’s ear, casting his gaze over the mess in front of them. “Is this good for what you need?”

Saran tilted their head back and beamed up at him. “Absofuckinglutely.”

. . .

The mana here was different from the Maybe-Walmart, less industrialized and more personal. The traces were fainter, harder to disentangle from one another, woven together with age and disuse. It was almost enough for Saran to consider taking off their gloves, but no, it wasn’t that bad yet. Mostly, however, it was different because Saran was looking for specific things that they could not find at Maybe-Walmart. Stolen things.

They had considered disguises for the undetectability potion, but disguises we’re really undetectable. They’d still bought some at the Maybe-Walmart, hair dye, fake glasses, wigs, a couple of toy spy sets that carried a stronger trace of undetectable that was normal. But those would have to be twisted, because disguises didn’t hide people's presences, just . . . made them look like something else. It would be better to put that mana towards a different potion. But stolen goods were something entirely different. People who stole things didn’t want to be caught. Didn’t want to be found. And if they stole objects, then those objects were often sold as soon as possible so the thief could not be traced. Most objects didn’t carry hide as mana, but if the thief’s desire to not be seen had been strong enough then maybe, just maybe, it had worn off on the object itself.

Perhaps that was the biggest difference between Maybe-Walmart and here. In Maybe-Walmart, the mana had been clear, despite the amount of stuff. Here the intent of the object would be muddled with the intent of those who had held it, different mana’s twisted together. They would have to pick the threads apart carefully for this to work.

Saran grinned. This would be a challenge. Possibly harder then the mana boost potion had been, or the fear gas. This was different then either of those had been. Challenging in all its steps, and Saran would not have enough mana collected to make many mistakes. A vial, if they were lucky. More likely half a vial. They would have to plot this very carefully. Nothing could be put to waste.

They closed their eyes, following the traces of mana in the air. Desperation. Amusement. Exhaustion. Pride. Curiosity. Greed. And below it all, a faint trace of hide. They opened their eyes and followed it, to the back where the jewelry was displayed in cases. Near there, a box of a chair, kanji written on the side in marker. Saran tapped the closed lid. “What’s in here?”

Lancer and the shopkeeper’s conversation stopped. Lancer relayed the question, and she said something back to him. Lancer nodded, then turned to Saran. “Bobbles, mostly. Nothing of great importance.”

“Am I good to open it up?”

“Yes.”

Saran opened the box carefully, glancing through the knickknacks. It was indeed a mess of stuff, useless in any other circumstance. It would take a while to sort through it, but the trace of hide was definitely coming from the box. “I’ll take it.”

“The whole box?” Lancer said disbelievingly.

“Yep.” 

He sighed, said something to the lady, then walked over to pick it up. “Anything else?”

“Give me a few.” Saran meandered over to the bookshelves. Pride was not something they associated with pawn shops. So why had they felt some of it? They ran their fingers over the stacks, tracing the words on the spines. Nothing, nothing, nothing, there. A faint trace, just stronger than the hide had been. They tugged the book out carefully, flipping through the pages. Diagrams and lists, hand written too, not typed. Faintly, they caught something else, tracing along their scars.

Mana.

Not pride. Not hide. Not anything else. Just that. Mana.

How curious.

Saran set it on the box and continued on, letting their fingers trail across spines then boxes then toys. Something tugged at them, something they couldn’t name. They tilted their head, turned back to the section between boxes and toy, and glanced through the piles. A board game, the box worn and frayed, the words on the front barely legible, but the tug was there. They reached over and picked it up.

And nearly dropped it.

Mana exploded across their scars, trailing fire across their hands and up their arms. Bonds. Family. Connection. So strong it was a wonder they hadn’t sensed it before. They gritted their teeth and shoved the game on top of the box, shaking their hands afterward. They’d be a fool to let something like that slide through their grasp. And that, plus the book . . . hmmm. There was something there, something good. They wouldn’t chase the fragment of an idea now, but they would later. “That’s all from here.”

Lancer stared down at them, a worried look on his face. “Are you all right?”

Saran glanced at the board game. “Yes, I am. Better than alright really. Come on, let’s pay.”

“All right.” He said softly, but they could still feel his worried gaze on their face. That was fine. He could be worried. Saran, however, was definitely not worried. No, not at all.

They glanced at the board game again and grinned. 


	26. Saran's Shopping Shenanigans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Would just like to say thanks so much for your comments and kudos! You all are amazing! I hope you enjoy and have a wonderful day!

Three pawn shops later and Diarmuid was thoroughly tired of dust. Not all of them had been as bad as the first, but none of them had been in overly good of a shape. Saran hadn’t seemed to care. They only cared about the fact the first one had most of what they needed. That wasn’t to say they hadn’t taken anything from the last three, but it wasn’t quite the haul the first one had given up.

Diarmuid leaned back in his chair, watching Saran scarf down their food. Currently, they were sitting outside of a café. Saran, despite the fact that sitting inside would have been safer, had refused to sit where all the people were. And despite the danger Diarmuid couldn’t bring himself to mind. It was a nice day. Cloudless, with sun beams spilling over the pavement and a brisk breeze blowing through his hair. 

Saran looked different in the daylight, removed from the artificial lights of their lab. The shadows under their eyes were more pronounced, but their skin glowed in a way that could almost be described as healthy. The same went for their hair, each snarl and knot was picked out in sharp relief, but it still shone glossily. Their shoulders were hunched, their gloved fingers tapped anxiously on the table as they gulped down their food. Their eyes were the same as always. Burning brightly, focused on something far away. Overall, they were still filled with restless energy, but somehow looked smaller in a way, unused to their surroundings. Vulnerable.

Diarmuid looked away, not sure how to feel about that. In their lab, Saran was an unstoppable force, out here, they were just one among thousands, and yet utterly separated from everyone else. 

He swallowed awkwardly. “What do we still need?”

Saran glanced up at him, chewing and swallowing. “An anti sound generator, but I might have to commission one of those. Or a dozen of them. A gem shop of some kind, occult, non occult, it doesn’t really matter, but it's best to check both to make sure.” They glanced around with a sigh. “That’s about it. We got a good payload this morning.”

Diarmuid smiled at them. “That’s good to know.” 

“Yeah.” They trailed off, playing with their fork, gazing out into nothing. Diarmuid knew that look very well, it was their idea one. Soon their delighted grin would spread across their face. Soon they would straighten abruptly. Soon they would go digging for their notebook, would bend over and scrawl illegibly on the pages. Soon they would be lost in that idea for hours, until they realized they were not in their lab and could not chase it. And as fun as it was to watch them while they were in that state, Diarmuid had no interest in sitting in the sun for hours, a target for any Master or Servant who spotted them.

“Saran,” he said, and their unfocused look wavered.

“Yes?” The single word was snapped.

“Are you through with your food?”

They glanced down and scowled. “I guess I am.”

“Good,” he smiled, “then shouldn't we get moving soon?”

Saran looked at him, looked at their plate, then stared wistfully into the distance. “Okay then.” They stood in a sudden flurry of movement, chair scraping across the pavement. “Lets go.”

. . .

The shop door tinkled when they opened it, Lancer right behind. The girl at the desk said a greeting. Lancer returned it. Saran wasn’t paying attention, there were other things they had to look at. Like the shop itself. Large windows, lots of lights, each surface seemed to reflect and glow, giving the room an airy feel. Not quite blinding, but close. There were glass tables and baskets and little cards and jewelry stands and other ‘look at me I'm so shiny’ things. There was also a bookshelf filled with thin novels and how to guides, at least Saran assumed as much. They weren’t here for books. 

They pulled out their list, heading straight towards the baskets of gemstones. They needed more carnelian, golden obsidian, ruby, fluorite, aquamarine, and azurite, and that was just for the mana boost and mana potions. They might as well stock up on kyanite, black onyx, obsidian, and clear quartz while they were here as well. Beyond those, they had a list of other stones they had looked up, ones that could be useful in the future.

Red jasper for strength and stability. Tiger’s eye for willpower and warrior’s spirit, whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean. Hematite for courage. Dalmatian stone for bonds. Pyrite for shielding. Garnet for victory. Moon stone for safe travels. Malachite for rebirth and new beginnings.

In the background, Lancer and the shopkeeper lady had struck up some kind of conversation. Saran glanced in their direction. The woman was leaning slightly against the counter, sending a bright grin Lancer’s way. His smile was not as bright, but still present, and he looked cordial enough. But that wasn't important. What was important was the shelves behind the woman, each hosting a large selection of raw crystals. Saran turned away, closing their eyes and letting the mana of the store wash over them. Stones did not have mana, but they held it well enough, so there were faint traces in the air. But it was a muddled mess, hard to decipher as the sensations played over their scars. 

They shook their head, making their selection of stones. It was quite a lot, but their benefactor’s card should cover them all, and if not, Saran could take care of the extras. They grabbed their bags, each one containing a different type just in case something went wrong later, and carted it over to the counter. The woman’s smile dimmed. Lancer raised an eyebrow. “That . . . is a lot.” He said slowly, his lips twitching in a faint smile.

Saran grinned at him. “And it’s not all.” They jabbed a finger at a rough hunk of crystal, about half the size of their head. “What’s that?”

Lancer gave them a look.

They sighed. “Fine. Please tell me what that is.”

He beamed at them, then turned around to pose the question for the woman. She spoke quickly back, with a shopkeeper's flourish, gesturing at the stone like it was on display. Lancer nodded, said something, then turned to Saran. “It’s rhodonite. Supposed to help with healing, grief, rela -”

Something clicked, a lock opened in the back of their mind. The idea that had been tickling their senses began to form in full. Lancer might have continued to speak, but they were no longer paying attention. “I’ll take it.”

He stopped, blinked at them. “The whole thing?”

They nodded. “Yeah, the whole thing.” They walked back to the tables with the baskets. Hmm . . . they might have enough with what they’d already collected, but even the budding idea in their mind promised something tricky. Something complicated. Something challenging. 

Saran grinned.

. . .

Diarmuid ended up carrying the gemstones, which he had expected. Had not expected the giant rhodonite crystal Saran had bought. Perhaps he should have, but he was still reeling. He wasn’t even sure if Saran had listened to him as he recited the supposed properties of the stone. Healing, grief, relationships, forgiveness . . . he wasn’t sure what Saran was planning on using it for. Unless it was for a love potion of some kind. No, he was overthinking it, surely. They were probably going to give the healing potion another go. No, that felt like underthinking it. It was almost impossible to gauge the direction of Saran’s thoughts beyond ‘Oh! A new idea! I must follow it!’

“Saran,” he said as he pushed the bags into the trunk, careful not to drop the chunk of stone, “Why did you get the rhodonite?”

Saran had already pushed inside the car, ignoring their drivers' sigh, scribbling wildly on their list. He slipped in beside them, then turned to the driver. A few moments later, the driver’s worry was wiped away, they would be going home now. “Saran?” He asked again.

“Lancer.” They shot back, their tone sharp. They glanced up at him for the briefest of moments, teal eyes flashing, then glanced down again. 

Diarmuid looked over their shoulder. Their chicken scratch was as illegible as ever, letters and words blurring together. There was a doodle on the top of the paper that he could make out though. Lots of interconnecting lines, each one shooting off sharply. It looked almost like a grid. “Saran,” he asked again, softly this time, “what is the rhodonite for?”

Saran hissed through their teeth. “It cleaves like mage family crests.” The words were blurred together, resentful as if they regretted even taking the moment to speak them. 

“What?”

Nothing. No doubt they wouldn’t speak again till they had chased this idea for as far as they could go.

Diarmuid squinted at their little doodle. It might have been a mage crest, at least it loosely resembled one. Maybe. He wasn’t quite positive though. He didn’t know what mage crests looked like, so he would have to take Saran’s words for it. But . . . mage crest, why would Saran need a stone that cleaved like mage crests? 

He leaned back into his seat and let his gaze drift to the window. No matter, he would learn eventually. Or perhaps he wouldn’t. Who knew how much time they had left before the Holy Grail War erupted in full. A week, maybe two. So he would see the process, would watch the experiments bloom, would pull them from the explosions that resulted, but he wouldn’t see the finished product.

He didn’t like that. He wanted to see where Saran went, what came from their manic scribbles. He’d been by their side for longer then he’d been by the side of his lord - no. That was worse. Saran was his friend, and he would miss them when the war was over, but that was all. He’d known it from the beginning. He was to stay by Saran’s side until the war started, and it would start soon. 

He shook his head, pushed those thoughts away. He had his own preparations to make. 

. . .

Finally, finally, back in their lab, Saran went straight to work. They started sorting supplies while Lancer brought the bags in, shifting them from one area to another. The giant chunk of rhodonite got shoved to the top shelf. The other gemstones were separated, if they already had containers, those containers were filled, if not, Saran labeled new ones. Finally, they stepped back, sucking in a deep breath. In front of them, rows upon rows of color, ready for future use. They started putting those away, row after row after row, denying Lancer’s help when he made an attempt. He retreated back to the kitchen area, pouring over a map he had drawn from somewhere. 

Saran didn’t pay attention. They began to clean up the lab, focusing on the mana beneath their fingers. Clean. Clean. Clean. Tonight's work would be difficult, they had a lot of stuff they needed to deal with, a lot of complicated shit. Their excitement ebbed away. They were not looking forward to what the next few days would bring.

Lancer looked up from his maps, made some sort of small movement. “Saran?” They glanced at him for the briefest of seconds. His eyes were worried, and there was a small frown on his face. They glanced away. “Saran.” He repeated, “What are you . . .” Understanding hit, his voice trailed off.

Saran stretched, felt their back pop. “No worries Lancer, I’ll be fine.” They sent him a grin, wide and beaming. Of course they would be fine. The setback would only be for a couple days, and thought the process was painful it wouldn’t kill them. They just weren’t looking forward to that pull and push of mana, the exhaustion that came after.

He hissed slightly, but his words were calm. “I know that.” He hesitated, “Can you not wait till after dinner? Or in the morning? No, don’t reply. You can’t.” He folded up his map and slipped into the lab. “At least let me help with something.”

Saran hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, if you can do the vials, that would be nice. Just don’t touch me while I do the process.” 

They tuned his assent out, started separating the objects, calling out their names and the amount of vials they would need for each. When they looked back over, Lancer had dragged over another chair. His map sat folded beside him, vials spread across the table, each labeled with handwriting neater than their own. He had them separated too, into different groups, and something in Saran warmed. It was . . . nice. They turned back to their work, pushing the book and the board game to the very back of the table. Those would be last. They opened the first box, dumping the contents onto the table. Metal clattered, rubber bounced, wood clacked. They set the box aside and began sorting through the objects, pulling out the few that murmured with the trace of hide. A few gold buttons. A wooden toy doll. A necklace with a glass pendent. The rest they pushed back into the box, and then they grabbed the next. Soon they had a messy pile of junk, the boxes moved away. 

Saran stared at the mess, taking a couple of deep breaths. This time Lancer didn’t try to offer them the option of not doing it. This time he was by their side, waiting to catch them before they fell. They glanced at him. He’d kept the glasses on for some reason and was fingering one vial. He watched them carefully, eyes searching for something. Saran didn’t know what it was. They grinned at him. A bit wide. A bit violent. All excitement and nerves.

“Pass me the first vial for hide.”

He nodded and silently handed it over. Saran placed one hand on top, palmed the buttons in the other. They could feel the pull, the whisper of hide over their scars. They pushed thought away, focusing on that pull, that little current of what they needed. Hide. Hide. Hide.

They closed their eyes, took in a deep breath, filling their lungs with air.

Empty.

They breathed out slowly, their shoulders slumping with the movement.

Vacant.

Breathe in.

Vessel.

Breathe out.

Vacío.

Breathe in.

Vacante.

Breathe out.

La vasija.

In.

Hide.

Out.

Hide.

IN.

Esconder.

OUT.

ESCONDER.

IN.

OUT.

Nothing.

Then again. 

And again.

. . .

Time blurred as Saran worked. Diarmuid watched them breathe, the barely there mana flexing around them. It was hard to separate the almost color’s from the rest of the lab’s shine, but soon he was able to tell the difference. The mana around Saran grew bright, first in the hand that held the buttons, then pulsing through their body, traveling to their other hand. The vial began to glow, he could see the buildup of the mana within. Saran dropped the buttons. They clattered against the table. They reached out and snagged the next object, their mana began to glow again.

Diarmuid reached out and cleared the buttons away. Just these, and the vial had barely filled. He tried to imagine how long Saran would take doing this and decided he didn’t want to know. There was another pulse of light. They dropped what had been in their hand, moved to the next. Diarmuid cleared that away too, tossing it and the buttons into the box.

They continued like that for a while, until Diarmuid had to switch the vial of hide for another. He stoppered it carefully, then stared at the glow because it was easier than watching Saran’s face. There was an odd quality to this mana, flashing in his vision before disappearing from view, before glinting and then blazing again. 

Saran’s palms hit the table. They drew in a ragged breath. Diarmuid twisted to stare at them, reaching out, but they shook their head. Already, their week of rest and relative calm was being wiped away by their custom weariness. The shadows under their eyes were more prominent, a grey tinge had touched their warm brown skin, their hair had lost some of its luster. But as always, their eyes had refused to dim. “Strength next.” They said, their voice cracking on the words.

Diarmuid nodded. “Of course.” He took the vial of hide, this one only half full, stoppered it and set it with the other. He grabbed a vial labeled strength and passed it over. Saran began again, and over and over the process repeated. They would grab an object, the mana would pass through them, then either they would grab another or Diarmuid would take the filled one and give them an empty one. Each round left them more drained, and by the time they reached the book and the board game, they looked like they’d been recently pulled from the grave.

“Saran.” He said carefully, reaching out to grab their hand. They were cold in his grip, too cold, and he felt a twist in his stomach. “You’ve done enough, save those for later.” Saran opened their mouth, staring at him with unfocused eyes. The glint was still there, but he was afraid that it would blow out if they continued. He thought of those horrible nights after the first time they had done this, and swallowed hard. “Please.”

Saran worked their jaw for a few moments. “Lancer.” Their voice was a barely there rasp. “I need to do this. I need . . .” They blinked at him, shook their head. “I need to do this.” This time the words were stronger, more determined.

Diarmuid took their other hand as well. “Saran, please.” 

For a moment they stared at him, then they looked back at the book and board game, then stared at him again. Finally, they nodded, and as if it had been sheer will holding them up, which it probably had been, their eyes snapped shut, and they collapsed.


	27. The Potion Above All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thanks so much for you comments and kudos, and Happy Valentine's Day!

_ The world is hazy. Words slip by but you don’t know what they mean. Two voices, one deeper, the other lighter and more musical. They are rising, one frantic, one gentle. You know those voices. They are family. You start to cry. The voices stop, someone picks you up and presses a kiss to your forehead. Warmth surrounds you, the one you always connect to one person. Father. Your crying stills. Words flicker by your ears again, and a few are familiar, but you can’t make out the full message. They aren’t talking about you.  _

_ The warm hands pass you to someone else. They bundle you close to their chest, their lyrical voice moves slowly through the air. The touch is colder, softer. The person smells nice, like warm milk. Mother. You begin to relax. Everything’s alright, they are both here with you and everything will be okay. So you sink into your mother’s hold and fall asleep again. _

_ When you wake up, you are alone. The world around you is grey and hazy, beneath your feet the ground ripples like water. Something in you thinks “dream”, but the rest is terrified. You are young and alone and you don’t know where Mom is. You spin around, but there is nothing but gray hazy mist and a floor that reflects so that it looks as if you are standing in a cloud. “Mom!” Another spin. Panic beats in your chest. “MOM!” _

_ “Honey, I’m right here.” You spin around again and she is there, loose black hair framing her face in soft curls, falling past her shoulders. Her eyes are grey, just a bit bluer than the haze around her. The panic drains through your limbs and drips away. “Sarah, what’s wrong?” _

_ You are just old enough to pinpoint the discomfort at the name Sarah. You haven’t figured out why you don’t like being called “she” and “her” beyond the fact that you don’t. You haven’t told her yet, you’re not sure how. But it doesn’t matter right now because she is here and she is not gone.  _

_ You race towards her. She kneels and catches you in your arms. You bury your face in her shoulder and your tears wet her sweater. She still smells like milk, but also of snow. Something cold and comforting. “I thought you were gone!” You wail the words. You don’t like the thought of being left alone.  _

_ Her fingers card through your hair. “Sarah, I would never leave you.” Her voice lilts and lifts, like music. You may not like the name Sarah, but you like the way she says it. If you get another name you want one close to Sarah, so she can say it in that same way. “I promise you that. I would never leave you.” _

_ Then she is gone, slipping like water through your fingers. You stumble to your feet, turning around and around and around but she is nowhere. Father dying hadn’t hurt, you’d been too young to remember him, but this was like a spike to your chest. Gone. She is gone. Gone. _

_ That little thing in you says “nightmare.” _

_ The world swirls around you. The floor ripples, revealing wood. The mists blow away. Then you are in your Uncle’s study. He sits at his desk, writing something in one of his notebooks. He is surrounded by his trinkets, the objects he has collected through the years. Bookshelves line the walls. Large windows allow light to stream into the room, shafts of sunbeams full of dancing dust. There is a glass case with Uncle’s artifact collection. You know them all by heart now, years of sitting on the top, staring down at the contents, has engraved their shapes into your mind. _

_ Uncle has always liked things more than people. You are the one exception. _

_ He looks up from his notes. His eyes are the same as yours, teal and sharp. His hair is silver. His face is lined with age. “Saran, what brings you up here?” _

_ You shrug and walk over, glance at his notes. There is a book open to his side, the drawings are odd, the words are listed. Like instructions. You bend over and stare at his neat notes. His handwriting is much better than yours. Mom’s had been calligraphy. Uncle says you get your chicken scratch from your father. It has been long enough that the pain doesn’t hurt too much when you think of them.  _

_ “I have ten minutes before I’m needed again.” You say finally. “Did you find another one?” _

_ He takes off his glasses and rubs them. His eyes shine with curiosity. “Yes. I’m trying to make sense of it now.” He laughs, but it breaks into a coughing fit. With effort he regains his breath and continues. “It’s like it’s actively resisting my efforts.” _

_ You narrow your eyes at the page. “No worries, I’ll figure it out.” You can feel the pull in your blood, the understanding thrumming through your bones. You are close. You are close to a breakthrough.  _

_ “I’m sure you will.” He glances up and grins. “You are so much smarter than me, Saran.” _

_ You chuckle and pat his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. See you in a bit Uncle.”  _

_ You turn to go. Your footsteps strike the floors as you walk. Something hits wood. You spin around, your heart leaping in your chest. Uncle’s hand has fallen against the table. Part of his face is slack, his eyes are confused. “S - Saran?” Your name is slurred, his eyes begin to close, he slumps in his seat. _

_ “UNCLE!” _

_ A burst of light, heat and fire and pain, and also, somehow COLD. It worms beneath your skin, traces through your blood. COLD. A restless energy, hungry and searching. COLD. For a way in. COLD.  _

_ Then the sensations are gone and you are in your lab. Glass glitters like snow on the soot streaked floor. The table is charred from the fire, your notebook lost in the flame. Your memory is hazy, it slips through your fingers like water. Head trauma the doctors said, from when you fell back and your head struck the floor. Your hands shake. Your scars are swathed in bandages. You know if you remove them they will be shiny and red and angry. Cloth hurts, water hurts, touch is pain. One day you might regain full use of your fingers, but it will take time and patience and practice. _

_ You don’t want that. You want your memories back where they should be, your fingers working again. If only the whole year could turn back and you could start all over, then perhaps none of this would have happened. _

_ It is foolish. The past is in the past. The only way to go is forwards. _

_ But staring at the remains of your ruined lab, in the house that echoes so empty now, that seems impossible. _

_ (This is a dream, a nightmare. You know the signs, the script is written into your marrow. You know what comes next.) _

_ Clap. Clap. Clap. Just three, and you spin around, heart leaping in your throat. She is there. Venna, wearing the clothes you last saw her in, minus the soot and the charred spots. A black leather jacket, a hot pink shirt with Girl Power written in rhinestones, dark skinny jeans, fashionable boots. But the expression she wears is different than any she’s worn before. Cold. Vaguely amused.  _

_ “Saran,” she says in that way she had, when you two were friends hunting something impossible, “Here we are again.” _

_ You cross your arms and stare at her. You are no longer a puppet jerked on strings, you know what is to come. You can’t stop it, but you can try to speed it up. “Get on with it Venna, I have things to do.” _

_ “What?” She tips her head, her dark eyes glitter coldly. A thrill of wrongness shoots through you. Despite all the arguments, despite the way things had fallen apart, Venna had never been cold. “Are you going to choose your experiments over your friends again?” _

_ You don’t answer. _

_ She laughs and steps towards you. You catch a whiff of perfume, jasmine. It makes you think of long nights bent over notes and equations. “Of course you are,” she continues, her voice cutting, “it’s what you do best, isn’t it?” She reaches out and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. Her grin is cruel. _

_ You step away. “Just go ahead and get it over with. There’s no need for these games.” _

_ “Why outline your faults and fears when you already know them?” She waves a hand, speaking the words running across your mind. “After all, we both know how this will end.” _

_ You turn around, away from her cruel smile and taunting eyes. You stare at your ruined lab. Memories of that night try to swim up, but fall away before you can grasp him. “Then end it already Venna, no use in dragging it out.” _

_ “Now where’s the fun in that?” _

_ You freeze. _

_ It’s not Venna’s voice. It is Lancer’s voice, you’ve been listening to that irish lilt for almost a year now, how could you not know it? You don’t turn around, you don’t want to see.  _

_ “Saran.” His voice is tired, almost amused. His hand lands on your shoulder, feather light, and you stiffen. He ducks around so you can see his face.  _

_ You can’t breath.  _

_ You can’t breath. _

_ You can’t breath. _

_ He smiles with blood smeared lips. His eyes shine gold from red filled sclera, silted pupils dark against the bright. Blood trails down his cheeks like tears. “Saran,” he says again, “don’t look at me like that. You knew this was the end for me. I am a Servant. My only role in this War is to bring victory to my lord and die.” He twists so he is fully in front of you. There is a gaping hole in his chest. You can see right through him to the ash streaked cabinets beyond. _

_ “No.” Is that your voice? It can’t be, so cracked, so scared. Such a simple word, no, how can it carry so many feelings? “No.” You take a step back. Your foot crunches on glass. “No.” _

_ He shrugs. His hair is somehow still in it’s slicked back and tousled look, but strands hang down to his shoulders. “I’ve accepted it. So should you. It is how Holy Grail Wars work after all.” He stares down at you with those blazing golden eyes. Inhuman. For the first time, you wonder who he really is, the man with two spears and a cursed mole and inhuman eyes. “At least you’ll live, my friend.” Then he is gone, dark motes peeling of his body and drifting away.  _

_ You spin around, but the corners of the room are empty. You are alone again. Always, always alone. It’s easier to stay like that, to not let anyone in so they don’t rip you apart when you leave. But your lab feels hollow somehow. You collapse to your knees. Lancer. Dead. And you are alone again. _

_ "Well, well.” Venna’s voice. You look around, and she is standing there, by the door, watching you like you are a butterfly she has pinned to the wall. She taps her cheek. “You ended up caring again. You shouldn’t have done that, you know what happens to the people you care about.” Then she too is gone, and there's something hammering on the walls of your lab, kicking at the door. It shakes with each blow, but you can’t flinch away.  _

_ You can’t breath. _

_ Mother. _

_ Uncle. _

_ Venna. _

_ Lancer. _

_ And finally, you. _

. . .

Saran jerked awake, eyes snapping open, pain flaring all over their body. Their breath came in ragged gasps. They could feel the couch beneath their head, the scrape of cloth against their skin. They couldn’t breath. They couldn’t breath. With frantic haste they pushed themself up, blankets pooling around their waste. Their shirt pulled at their skin, sending fire racing across their scars. The room around them was dark and empty.

Lancer. Where was Lancer?

They stumbled off the couch, kicking off the blankets. Their head swam, their vision flickered. Despite the shake in their limbs, they stumbled around, searching, searching. No, he wasn’t here, he wasn’t here, he wasn’t - they sucked in a sharp breath. Of course he wouldn’t be here, he was probably with his lord, preparing for War. They should have been passed out for two more days at least, he had time to do that. Or perhaps he’d been called away. They wrestled with their panic and shoved it down. The dream had changed. It hadn’t changed in eight years, not since Venna.

Dumb, they were being dumb. 

With shaking steps they stumbled toward the bathroom, shutting the door behind them. They barely made it. They stood there, leaning against the door, gasping for breath. This happened sometimes, instead of the week out of commission, they woke up after a few days. But there was a price. That dream.

They reached over and flicked on the lights, wincing at the harsh brightness. They peeled off their gloves, ignoring pain as the cloth ripped from their flesh. Their scars had reopened, and they’d been asleep long enough for the blood to dry. They tossed the gloves at the sink and stared down at their hands. A mass of scabs and weeping wounds, skin shiny and tight in places, vivid red in others. This was the second price they paid for days of clarity. Sometimes they weren’t even sure it was worth it. 

With a curse they began to strip. They needed to clean the blood off before Lancer returned. If he saw the blood, he’d freak. And they . . . they couldn’t face him right now anyway, not when that image was stuck in their mind, his face so pale and his eyes so bright and blood dark against his skin. They cursed and shook their head, ignored the way the action made their thoughts spiral and nausea rise. They would not think about that. They could not think about that.

. . . 

They sat on the shower floor, arms around their legs, hair plastered to their face as the lukewarm water struck their skin. They watched the water drain, the slight reddish tint to it from their blood. They closed their eyes and pressed their face against their knees. Water streamed down their face, dripping off their chin. Each breath was slow and deliberate. They waited for the dream to wash away, for their mind to clear.

It didn’t. Lancer’s face was still imprinted against their eyelids. They’d made a mistake, a dumb, stupid mistake. They cared, about Lancer, about someone in a War that ended with most of its contestants dead. Only one Master Servant pair could get the grail. There were so many ways to lose, so many ways to die. And they had still become friends with him, had still become attached. Idiot, they were an idiot. They knew better. 

Slowly, they opened their eyes and set their chin on their knees. Suddenly they were glad Lancer wasn’t in, and not because of their bleeding scars, but because they weren’t sure what they would do. It was one thing when they dreamed of a lab accident, but quite another when they dreamed that dream. They knew what they should do, they should cut off contact now. Just stop. Stop talking, stop being friends, just stop.

They couldn’t. They couldn’t, not unless they packed up and left, and . . . they didn’t want to do that. Leaving would hurt, him dying would hurt, no matter the path there was only pain. Fucking hell, how could they have let this happen? They knew better. But it was too late now, they couldn’t pull back, not unless they left. And if they left, they wouldn’t be able to take all their supplies with them. That was as good of a reason as any to stay. 

They pushed themself up, reaching out to steady themself. Yes, they would stay. They would stay, but that was it. Lancer’s Master had enough potions for three Wars. They had their ideas they needed to work on. The undetectability potion, that was what they would work on. As for Lancer . . . there wasn’t much they could do there. They were already attached, and this time, there was no excuse to drift away. They would have to muddle through and focus on their potion. The potion above all. Simple as that. 

The potion above all.


End file.
